


Hawke's Rage

by Keolah



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Blood Magic, Canonical Character Death, Demonic Possession, Drama, Gen, Minor Character Death, Murder, POV First Person, Pre-Canon, Present Tense, Sexual Assault, Sibling Rivalry, Violence, crossdressing as a boy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-17
Updated: 2012-08-30
Packaged: 2017-11-13 09:11:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 42,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/501849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keolah/pseuds/Keolah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke had always been warned about demons. But in a moment's weakness as a child, life changes forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It Begins in Fire

"Susan, would you go collect some elfroot in the woods nearby?" Father asks me, gesturing toward the collection basket by the door. 

"Yes, Father," I say, smiling and going to grab the basket. 

"Malcolm, are you sure it's alright for her to be out by herself?" Mother says, poking her head into the room with a look of concern. 

"Ah, she'll be fine, Leandra," Father says. "She's twelve years old now, after all. She's getting to be a big girl now. Just be sure to stay in sight of the house. And don't do any magic." 

"Of course, Father," I tell him. 

I giggle a little to myself as I skip outside. Father trusts me to collect herbs in the forest all by myself! It's a big responsibility. I don't need to be reminded not to do any magic. I'm a mage, Father's a mage, my little sister Bethany is a mage. That's all a big secret. Especially if there's any templars nearby. But we've gone this long without anyone finding out about us. 

It's a beautiful summer day. Sunlight streams down through the leaves overhead, and I smile, spinning around a little in its warmth. This far south in Ferelden can be pretty chilly in the winter, and I'm glad to be warm for a little while at least. There's still a bit of a cool breeze whipping through the trees. It was so much nicer up near Highever and Amaranthine, but now we're living down by South Reach for the moment. We've always been on the move, never staying too long in one place, to avoid the templars. 

I carefully lean down and pick some more elfroot and put it into my basket. Father will be glad to see how much I've gotten for him to make potions from. There, that should be enough. He'll be really happy! I turn to go back to the house. But I've lost track of where it is. I wasn't supposed to go out of sight of the house. 

Well, I won't tell anyone I went so far. It should be back in this direction. It'll be alright. I'm not about to get lost out here. It's not like I've never been out in this forest before. But never before, always with my father. He showed me all the useful plants of the forest, and what they could be used for. 

"Say, isn't that the Hawke girl?" 

"Yeah, the older one. Susan, I think her name was." 

I hear voices from somewhere nearby. I see movement in the trees. There's three older boys, maybe fifteen or sixteen. I don't remember their names, but I'm sure I've seen them around the village before. 

The three of them approach me, chuckling to themselves. Maybe I can ask them which is the way back home. 

"We came out here to trap rabbits. Imagine that we trap a girl, instead." 

"Edward, what are you talking about?" says one of the other boys. 

"Oh, come on, Darian. I just want to have a little fun," Edward says. "What are you, chicken? Go ahead, turn tail and run if you're so scared of a little girl." 

I'm very confused. I blink at them, wondering what they're talking about. Do they want to play games with me? Maybe hide and seek, like I play with Bethany and Carver sometimes? They should be scared of _that_. I'm very good at seeking. 

"Hah, right, whatever you say, Edward," says the third boy. 

"I'm not scared of no little girl," Darian protests. 

"You two can have your fun, too," Edward says, grinning at me. "I wouldn't dream of keeping her all to myself." 

"Did you want to play hide and seek?" I ask, cocking my head at him. 

Edward throws back his head and gives a strange laugh. "No, I was thinking of _other_ sorts of games." He glances to his companions. "Grab her arms." 

As the other two boys come up to me and take hold of my arms, hard, I realize that whatever fun they intend isn't meant for _me_. My eyes widen in fear as Edward approaches me. He reaches over to touch me, pawing at me with his hands. 

"Hey, leave me alone!" I snap. 

"Aw, little girl doesn't want to play?" Edward says, sneering at me. "Like she can stop us. What are you going to do, little girl? Give me a mean look?" 

"She might tell her father," Darian murmurs. 

"I'm not scared of her father," Edward says, snorting softly. "Besides, I'm sure she won't breathe a word of this to anyone, ever. The shame would be too great, you know?" 

"What shame?" I say. 

"Hah, you've no shame, do you? I'm sure your father would punish you greatly for that. Imagine, his lewd little girl, getting into things she has no business with. What would your father think if he knew his daughter was a whore, huh? A dirty slut? A loose woman?" 

I frown as his words sink in, starting to slowly understand what he means. Father would be furious, I'm sure. He'll already be angry enough at me if he finds out that I wandered out of sight of the house, like he told me not to do. They probably won't come looking for me for some time. I haven't even been gone that long yet. 

Edward is groping at me, his fingers working their way under my clothing. I don't want this. I don't want to be some filthy whore, good for nothing but to hide my face from my father in shame. Tears well up in my eyes, and I start shaking in fear -- and anger. How dare these boys do this to me! 

_You don't have to let them_ , whispers a voice in my ears. 

Father always warned me to be careful of demons, never to agree to their bargains. 

_I can help you. I can protect you_. 

If I agree even for a moment, then I am lost. No, I don't need any demon to help me. I'm not some helpless little girl. I can defend myself. They're just boys, armed only with knives at best. 

I'm not supposed to use magic outside the house, but Father will be angry with me anyway if he finds out, and I don't want them to do this to me. To the Fade with this all. I'm not going to let them do this. 

I call forth my magic, and flames wreathe my hands. The other two boys release my arms in surprise, although I don't think I actually burned them. Not yet. 

"Magic!" hissed the third boy. 

"She's a mage!" said Darian. 

"So, the little girl's an apostate, it seems," Edward said, trying to make himself sound calmer than he looks, but the wild look in his eyes betrays his fear. "Run along home, then, little mageling. I've no interest in trifling with an apostate." 

"Too late," I say. "I won't forgive you, _Edward_. And I won't let you get away." 

I throw fire from my hands, with a flick of my fingers, engulfing Edward in blazing destruction. The other boys are trying to run away. I hurl a bolt of flames at one of them, knocking him off of his feet. 

Edward is dead, reduced to a mass of charred flesh, and as I run past, I make sure the other one is as well. I don't have time to stop and feel bad about having just _killed_ someone. I have to protect my secret at all costs. 

Darian is running away as fast as his legs can carry him. I chase after him, pelting fiery spells in his general direction. He's moving too quick, though, and I can't manage to hit him. Leaves and shrubbery burst into flames around me from my misaimed spells. 

I spot buildings through the trees. We're approaching the village. I can't catch up with Darian, and someone else notice from here if I use anymore magic. Oh, this isn't good. 

But the only one in sight at the moment is a man in templar armor. Oh, of all the people to run into, did it have to be a templar? I stop dead in my tracks at the edge of the trees as I see Darian and the templar speaking quickly to one another and casting looks in my general direction. 

"Susan Hawke," the templar calls out to me, stepping toward me with his hand on his sword. I take a step away, backing a little further into the trees. "I am Ser Locke. I know what you are, and what you have done. Surrender at once and you will not be harmed." 

"What!?" Darian exclaims. "She killed my friends! And you'd let her live? I thought you were going to kill her!" 

"Your friends tried to hurt me!" I snap. 

"She's just a child, Darian," Ser Locke says. "Young, confused, and untrained. Of course she reflexively attacked you if you threatened her. This is why magic needs to be contained. She just needs to be taken to Kinloch Hold to be properly trained and kept under control. Now, come along, Susan. I don't want to hurt you." 

"But I do!" Darian growls. He pulls out a knife from his belt and charged at me. "Die, you murderer!" 

I stumble back in confusion, wide-eyed. Didn't he just see his friends die? Is he counting on the presence of the templar to protect him now? 

_I can help you_ , whispers the same voice in my ears, in my mind. 

I shut it out and ignore it for the moment. Magic is the only way I have to defend myself, and the templar in front of me already knows my secret anyway. As Darian comes rushing toward me, I lift my hands and let forth a stream of flame, engulfing him in a ball of fire. Bold idiot, how dare he try to attack me like that, in front of a templar and everything! 

Ser Locke sighs as he approaches me, sword in hand. "Please stop, Susan. You'll leave me no choice but to slay you if you continue." 

"He attacked me!" I growl. 

"I would have protected you," Ser Locke says. "It is as much the duty of the templars to protect mages from others as it is to protect people from mages." 

"I don't believe you," I say, my voice trembling. 

My body is shaking. Angry, afraid, trapped like a cornered rat. I take another step back, but I know there's no use in running. Even if I escape, he'll just tell the other templars about me. He knows my name. My family might wind up being hurt because of this. I don't want that to happen. I have to protect my family. Father, Bethany. What if someone discovers that they're mages, too? 

_I can save you_ , whispers the voice again. 

Templars have powers that they can use to stop my magic. I've never had to fight a templar before. He could turn me into just a helpless little girl again. And I never want to be helpless again. I don't want to surrender. I don't want to give up. If my secret is to be kept, I need to kill him. I have to kill him. Somehow. 

_I can give you all the strength you need_ , whispers the demon one more time. _You don't have to be helpless. Not to boys like those, not to templars, not to anyone, not even to me. I will help you to destroy anyone who would seek to harm you. We can destroy them all, together._

I close my eyes for a moment and let out a heavy sigh. Father said to never listen to demons. Never to agree to their bargains, because they'll always trick you, and then they'll have you. 

_I don't ask for much. I won't ask for much. I don't want to control you. I just want to see the world through your eyes..._

The templar is upon me, directly in front of me, close enough that he could reach out his sword and stab me through the heart if he so desired. I don't want to die. I don't want to be locked up in a prison like some criminal. My only crime is having been born with magic and defending myself from people who wanted to hurt me. 

_Imagine what we can do together..._

I'm so angry, like I've never been before. Enraged at the injustice of the world. I don't deserve this! I've done nothing to deserve this! And if it takes making a deal with a demon to spare me from this... then so be it. 

_So be it._

My veins burn. My blood boils. Rage fills me, rage like blazing fire, rage like molten lava. 

"Susan... Susan?" Ser Locke says. "Your eyes... Your eyes are glowing red. Abomination!" 

"You will not have me!" I growl. 

Lambent flames ripple along my skin. In a panic, Ser Locke tries to bring his templar powers to bear against me. But it's too late for him. Rage consumes me, and I grip burning hands around his neck. I hold nothing back, giving myself over completely to the fury within me. I will not be beholden to the fears of a world that hates me _ever again!_

Ser Locke's body burns and slowly turns to ash beneath my touch. It takes me a few minutes to realize that he's dead. The fourth man I've killed today, and yet there's nowhere in my heart for regret. I've done no wrong. 

Still, why am I trembling so badly as I sink to my knees next to the remnants of the templar's armor? Oh, Maker, I've just killed four people. And what's more, I'm possessed by a demon. 

Tears sting my eyes unbidden, and I quickly get to my feet and race into the burning forest as if trying to escape from myself. The forest is on fire, and I don't even care. I stumble a little, and cough at the smoke, but I keep running. 

_Susan_ , whispers a voice in my head. _Susan, you don't need to be afraid ever again. I'm here for you. I will protect you._

You're a demon! 

_I am. And you agreed to my bargain._

I was such a fool. 

_Curse yourself if you will, but I will keep the bargain I offered you. I'm not completely mindless like some other rage demons are. It would benefit me not at all if you were to die or are discovered. I will protect what is mine._

I trip over a protruding root and fall flat on my face. I grunt and cough, spitting dirt out of my mouth. Looking up, I realize I've run back to where I was when this started, where I was picking elfroots when those awful boys confronted me. The herb basket sits discarded the ground, flames slowly starting to consume it. 

_We have to get out of here_ , whispers the demon. _It's not safe here._

I pick myself up and climb to my feet again. Which way is home? I think it's that way. Coughing some more, I move along, trying to avoid falling again. After a while, I spot a building through the trees. Home! And the fire is creeping closer. Oh, Maker, I've put my family in danger. 

"Susan?" Father calls out from the door. "Susan! There you are! I've been so worried about you!" 

"I'm alright," I assure him. 

"Malcolm, we have to get out of here!" Mother says frantically. 

"The house isn't on fire yet," Father says. "Grab anything of value and we'll go." 

I'm too badly shaken to even think about going back into that house. I stagger and lean against the tree stump in front of the house. I try to calm myself, although it's a futile effort. My vision is blurry with smoke and tears. 

Rage can't save me from the burning forest. Rage was what started the blaze to begin with. Rage isn't the answer to everything. And yet rage is all I have. 

Arms reach around me and hold me tightly. I look up and see Mother. Flame-red hair framing her face, the same color as mine. Now it seems those flames have forever branded me. I can't stop trembling. 

"Shh, Susan," Mother says. "It's alright. Father won't let anything hurt you. He'll keep the fire from getting too close." 

Father comes out of the house, pack on his back and the eight-year-old twins in tow. "Everything's packed. Let's get out of here. To the road again." 

Without another look back, Father leads the way to the Imperial Highway, letting the flames wipe away any traces of our presence here. I can't help but stare back myself, however. We might be leaving now, but I will never be able to forget what happened here, nor will I ever be able to shake myself free of the monster that's rooted itself deep within my very soul. 

"We needed to be moving on soon, anyway," Father says once we're past the outskirts of the village. "We'd been there too long. People were starting to remember our names." 

"Oh, Malcolm," Mother says, sighing. "It's not good for the children to be constantly on the move. I wish we could just settle down someplace and make a real home for ourselves, and stop this camping, holing up in inns, squatting in abandoned hovels..." 

"You know how dangerous it is, Leandra," Father argues. "If the templars found out, we'd have to flee anyway." 

"A templar found me," I whisper. 

"What was that, little bird?" Father asks. 

_He must not find out about me_ , murmurs the demon in my mind. 

I'm not foolish enough to tell him that part. "A templar discovered me. I started that fire. I'm sorry." 

"A templar realized you were a mage?" Father says, raising an eyebrow at me. "How did he find out?" 

"Some boys attacked me," I say vehemently. "Out in the forest. I defended myself. I did nothing wrong." 

"You shouldn't have resorted to magic," Father says. "You should have just run away." He sighs. "But I can't blame you for that. Damned templars. What did those boys want with you, anyway? Your money?" 

I fix my gaze firmly on the road at my feet. I don't want to talk about that part. "I don't know." 

"Well, it doesn't matter now, I suppose," Father says with an odd note to his voice. "They won't be able to trace that fire back to you, so even if they know your name, we'll still be safe." 

"I told you she was too young to be out by herself," Mother says. 

"It was not her fault!" Father almost snarls. "She defended herself in the only way she knew how!" 

I sigh softly and let myself fall back to where the twins are walking behind them. I hate listening to my parents argue, especially when it's over me. I'll just let them work that out themselves, I suppose. 

"Are you alright, Susan?" Bethany asks. 

"I'm fine," I grumble. 

"Did you really kill a templar?" Carver wonders. 

I give a distant nod. I don't know if I really want to think about it. I killed a man. I killed four men. The very thought makes me sick. But I can't think that it was wrong. It was the right thing to do, without a doubt. 

"Wow," Carver breathes, eyes widening with a touch of awe. 

"Maker's breath, Carver, that's horrible!" Bethany says. "That's not something you should be admiring!" 

"I'm not admiring it!" Carver protests. "I'm just amazed at how crazy Susan must be." 

"I'm crazy now, am I?" I say. 

"You killed a templar!" Carver says. 

"Well, that's crazy, alright," Bethany agrees. 

"Not you, too," I groan. 

"We really don't need any trouble from the templars," Bethany says. "It's bad enough that we're both cursed with magic like this." 

"Magic isn't a curse!" I snap. 

"Father says it is," Bethany says. "And I agree with him. I didn't want to be a mage. I didn't ask for this. I'm so scared of some templar coming along and dragging me away. I'm not as brave as you, Susan. Or crazy. I don't think I could hurt someone to save myself." 

"Nobody's going to hurt you or drag you away, Bethany," I assure her. "Father will protect you. And so will I." 

"And I," Carver adds. 

"Thank you," Bethany says quietly. 

After a couple hours of walking, we make camp off of the road. Although we hadn't had much time to pack, we still have a good deal of supplies, provisions, bedrolls. It's as though Father were thinking ahead of time that we might have to leave on short notice, and had prepared in advance. I don't think that this were the sort of situation he'd been afraid of, however. It's not like I'd meant to set that forest on fire, though. Or that I went out of my way to attract trouble. I still can't help but shake the thought that this was somehow all my fault. 

As I lay in my bedroll staring up at the stars, my thoughts won't stay still. I can't fall asleep. I can still feel the creature within me, every moment, in my blood, in my mind, in my very soul, like a fire that will never go out. 

_You always hated the cold, though._

Do you know everything about me? 

_I'm a part of you now._

But you're not me, and you're not going to be. I am Susan Hawke! You're just some demon who probably doesn't even have a proper name. 

_My name is Ayande._

Alright, so you do have a name. I have no idea whether you just made that up on the spot or not, although I don't really care. At least I have something to call you, now, besides "you horrible monster". 

_Think of me what you like. Go ahead and give me all of your hate and rage. I will relish it._

That will only make you stronger, won't it. You're a rage demon, you said. Well, what if I refuse? What if I keep myself calm, and refuse to let myself get angry? Will that weaken you, then? 

_You are an inherently angry and aggressive person. I don't think you will be changing your nature now, anymore than I will._

It's never too late to change one's nature. 

_As you say. I have my doubts, but you are welcome to do what you like. Weaken me? I don't know. I don't know why you would wish to weaken me, since I will be protecting you._

One moment of weakness and I'm stuck with you. I'm stuck with a demon within me. 

_Embrace your rage. Embrace your hate. I will make you strong._

No. I refuse. I reject my rage. I reject my hate. I don't need these things in order to be strong. 

_So be it, then. But I won't be going away so easily._


	2. Welcome to Lothering

I see their faces in my dreams, flames licking around them, charring them to ashes. The voices of men and boys screaming in the burning forest. The smell of charred flesh. And worse, the rage demon Ayande, whispering in my ears, whispering in my mind. 

I wake with a gasp. I rub my eyes, trying to wipe the tears away. My eyes are stinging, burning, as if in memory of the smoke and fire from the day before. 

Father comes over to me and puts his hand on my shoulder comfortingly. "Are you alright, little bird? I know yesterday must have been rough on you." 

"I'm-- I'm fine," I murmur. 

_He must not find out about me_ , Ayande whispers in my head. 

I know that. I'm not a fool. Although I do have to wonder if Father would kill even his own daughter for being an abomination. He never held any love for demons. The thought of my own father slaying me is enough to chill my blood. 

_You hate the cold_ , Ayande reminds me. _The thought should enrage you. Make your blood boil at the injustice of it all. Who is he to judge you? It's not like I've given you a bad bargain._

Shut up. Maker, he's my father! I'm not going to hate my father! 

"You don't seem fine to me," Father says. "Come on, let's get you something to eat. You should get something in your stomach." 

My belly churns. I don't know if I could keep anything down right now. I certainly wasn't able to eat anything last night, and barely managed to sleep, as well. But I know I need to eat something. 

Father passes me a bowl of broth, and I quietly drink it down with trembling hands, trying not to spill too much of it. 

I can't get yesterday's events out of my mind. Those boys deserved what they got, but the templar? Trying to look at it objectively, he wasn't such a bad person. He might even have really thought he was trying to help me. And I killed him for it. He would not have hurt me, he said. They would have taken me to the Circle of Magi, where I'd be imprisoned for the rest of my life unless they needed my magic to kill something. 

Demonic possession and blood on my hands was the price of my freedom. Was it worth it? 

_Absolutely._

I'm not even sure whether that was my own thought, or Ayande. That terrifies me more than anything else right now. 

Still, what gives them the right to lock up mages like that? And worse, Father has told me horror stories about the Tranquil. Mages who have had their magic locked away, at the cost of losing their emotions as well. And every mage in the Circle runs the risk of being made Tranquil if the templars aren't happy with them. 

If I were made Tranquil, I would never be able to be happy again, nor sad, nor angry, nor afraid. I would not be able to love or hate. I would be nothing but a flat, limp puppet for the templars. 

_A terrible fate._

All things considered, maybe being possessed isn't such a bad thing compared to what might have happened to me. I certainly haven't turned into a hideous monstrosity, and I still seem to have my own free will. Or maybe I just think I do. Well, I'm not going to drive myself mad wondering whether I really have free will or just think that I do. I think that I do, and that's good enough for me. 

"Feeling any better, little bird?" Father asks me gently. 

"A little," I say quietly. 

"It's alright. Don't blame yourself." 

"I wasn't even supposed to use magic," I whisper. 

"Things happen sometimes. You defended yourself in the only way you knew how. Maybe I should be impressed that you were able to fight off a templar at all." 

I don't think I would have been able to do it without Ayande. Maybe I should be more grateful to her, and less hateful. Wait, did I just think of this rage demon as _her_? What's wrong with me? Demons aren't people. Demons are monsters. Demons are _it_. 

"I killed four people," I murmur. "I killed them. Burned them right up. I see them when I close my eyes. Screaming. Screaming at me." 

Father puts his arm around my shoulders. "Killing is never easy. It shouldn't be. Especially not at your age. I'm sorry that you had to do that. But make no mistake that you did what you had to do. Life doesn't always leave us with good choices." 

"The templar kept saying that he didn't want to hurt me," I say softly. "But he would have dragged me off to that tower and locked me up forever and maybe they would have made me Tranquil... I was so scared." 

"There are few people who believe that what they're doing is wrong," Father says. "Everyone believes in the rightness of what they are doing." 

"Then how can I judge what's really right?" 

"Let your magic serve that which is best in you, not that which is most base," Father tells me. He gives me a reassuring squeeze before standing and going off to pack up camp. 

That which is best in me is not a demon. I'll make Father proud of me. I won't let myself fall to demonic corruption, even if there's one inside of me. I'm stronger than that, and I'll fight tooth and nail to be the best person I can be. 

* * *

"Here we are," Father says. "Lothering." 

"Good, maybe now we can stop running for a while," Mother says, letting out a heavy sigh. 

Father gives me a long look, and says, "It's as good a place to stay for a while as any. A small Chantry, not many templars about. What do you think, little bird? Would you like it if we could stay here?" 

"I'm tired of running," I say quietly. "I'm tired of moving around all the time. I don't want to have to run anymore." 

"I can't make any promises," Father says. "But we can stay here for now. We can stay here until circumstances force us to move on." 

"We could have a real house for a chance?" Mother says, eyes lighting up hopefully. 

Father puts his arm around her waist. "Yes, Leandra. Let's have a real house. Let's build us a home on the outskirts of town, and raise our children in peace." 

It seems like a dream, and I can tell from the way Father says it that he doesn't even really seem to believe that things will work out that way himself. Especially not after what happened with me not three days prior. 

Mother leads me and the twins over to the inn to stay for the moment while Father goes off to work out some arrangements. I can't help but be a little excited at the prospect of living in a real house, rather than some abandoned hovel on the edge of a town. Especially ones that everyone thought were haunted, and Father had to kill some monsters inside before it was safe to live there. 

After eating a quick dinner, Bethany is yawning wearily. "I'm sleepy," she murmurs, head nodding. 

"Let's get you upstairs for some shut-eye," Mother says. "Carver, too." 

"But Mother, I'm not tired yet," Carver protests, trying to stifle a yawn himself. 

"It's been a bit of a trip for you young ones," Mother says. "Come now. No more arguing. It's off to bed with you." 

Mother gives me a look for a few moments before hauling the twins up to our room, leaving me alone in the common room and sipping some goat's milk. I'm more than a little uneasy about being left alone, and the moment she's out of sight, I have to resist the urge to go rushing upstairs after her. 

"Hey there, little girl," says a man, leaning over to me and grinning. 

I tense up and look at him wide-eyed in a sudden panic. My blood burns within my veins, and any semblance of calm vanishes like smoke in the wind. No, no, not here, not here! 

"Gah!" the man says, jumping away from me in surprise. "I wasn't going to do anything, I swear!" 

"What's wrong, Frank?" jeers another man. "You scared of a little girl now?" 

"I swear to Andraste! Her eyes turned red for a moment! They glowed red, I swear they did!" 

"You're drunk, Frank," the barkeep says with forced patience. "You're seeing things. The little girl is obviously not an abomination." 

I close my eyes, lowering my head, and try to make myself be calm even as I feel like I'm burning up from within. I can't let them see. I can't let them know what I really am. 

_Little girl, little girl, little girl..._

I empty my glass, the milk feeling like it's curdling within my stomach, and mutter, "Excuse me." 

I stumble to my feet and out the door, staring firmly at the ground as I go, not wanting to look at anyone or anything. I don't want to look at my family, either. I'm terrified of everyone and everything, worst of all, myself. 

There's no one that can help me. No one that can make everything better. I'm on my own. I can only rely on myself. I just have to learn to be strong enough to do it. 

_I can help you_ , Ayande whispers. 

No. Not you. You're the cause of all this. You're the last one who can help me. 

_Nobody else can. You can rely on me._

I shake my head and clench my eyes shut, leaning face-first against a wall. I need someplace where I can be alone, without having to be afraid of anyone seeing anything they shouldn't. I need someplace all to myself. A safe place. 

But I don't know where I can go here. I've never been to Lothering before. I don't know anyone here. I just know that I can't blow my cover this early. If anyone finds out, at best, we'll have to move on again already. At worst... my own father will kill me. 

Tears well up in my eyes, and I curl up against the wall, sobbing. 

"Oh, there's a little girl back here," says a woman's voice. "What's wrong, dear?" 

I tense up again involuntarily, and clench my fists. It's just a woman. Not a man that might do something bad to me. But I still can't help but feel a surge of anger at being called a little girl by _anyone_. 

I keep my eyes shut, looking away, hoping that there are no other immediate signs of possession that anyone might spot. I'm pretty sure that when I killed that templar, there was red glow visible even on my very skin. But I'm in control here, more or less. I haven't given myself over to my rage today. 

"I'm Sister Verity, with the Chantry. Do you need something, dear? Are you hurt?" 

"I'm fine," I insist, a little more harshly than I intended. I'm glad she didn't call me a little girl again. Being called a dear is alright. That helps to calm me a bit. 

"Are you sure, dear?" 

I let out a deep breath. "I'm alright. I'm not hurt. I just wanted to be alone." 

"I see," Sister Verity says. "Are you sure you don't want to talk about it?" 

I look away again, trying to push down another wave of anger. What business is it of hers to pry into my life? She has no right to ask these questions. No right to know anything about me. Why does the Chantry always think they know what's best about everything? 

"No," I growl. "Just, please. Leave me alone. Please." 

"Alright, dear," Sister Verity says, and I watch her shadow walk away on the wall before me. 

I breathe a sigh of relief. I'm alone for the moment to collect my thoughts. I can be calm again. There's no danger here right now. 

After calming myself, I go to take a better look around the town. The sun is slipping away in the west, casting long shadows upon the village. People are moving about wearily, many of them heading home at the end of a long day, going back to each of the little houses that they call their own. Their own safe places, to sleep and rest in peace without worry or fear, or nightmares of burning forests and the smell of charred flesh, or demons whispers in their sleep. 

"There you are, little bird," says Father, coming up to me as I'm standing on the bridge at the edge of town. "What are you doing out here?" 

I very nearly tense up just at being called "little bird" this time. It was alright before. But now it almost sounds too much like "little girl". My heart breaks a little at that. I always loved that pet name my father called me. Is that going to be tainted now, too? 

"Just looking around," I say distantly. 

"Are you alright, little bird?" 

I close my eyes and let out a heavy sigh. "No. I'm not alright. But thanks for asking." 

"Anything I can do to help, little bird?" 

I clench my fists. Maker, it's not like he's doing this intentionally. Tears sting my eyes. "I hate to ask this... but..." 

"Anything for my precious little bird." 

"Stop... stop calling me 'little bird'. Please. I beg of you. I know this probably sounds silly. And I hate having to say it. But... please. No more little birds. No more little anything. Please." 

"Ah," Father says, taking a step back. "My apologies. I did not realize that it was a sore spot. You're twelve years old now. I suppose I shouldn't really be calling you little anymore, anyway." 

"It's not that," I say. "Not that at all. It's just..." I sob quietly. I can't tell him. I can't explain it to him. Even if I wanted to, the words won't come out. 

"I understand," Father says, coming up and putting a hand on my shoulder. "It's alright." 

He doesn't understand. It's not alright. But I'm not going to argue with him. I can't argue with him. I can't form any words through my sobs. I bury my face in his shoulder and let the tears flow freely. 

_He's not safe. He could kill you, if he found out._

Maker, please just shut up. 

* * *

During our first few days in Lothering, I spend some time searching for a place to call my own. Someplace that I can come and run and hide myself away when I don't think I can completely control my rage. 

The nearby forest brings no comfort. I shy away from it in terror, unable to shake the images and smells. Burning trees, burning people, smoke and charred flesh. There will be no refuge for me there. 

I even try to seek peace in the Chantry. There are quiet places there that one might hide and be alone for a time. But I'm uncomfortable in and around the Chantry. Just being near there stirs Ayande up and brings my blood to a boil. I can't find any calm there. I wind up having to leave the building quickly, hoping to avoid attracting any unwanted attention, from the laypeople and especially the templars. 

Instead, I find myself hiding up in our room at the inn, but there's no privacy there. At least I don't need to worry about other people. If my own family finds out that I'm possessed, it's bad enough, but even worse if any outsiders discover it. 

"Susan?" Father says, walking up behind me as I'm curled up quietly in a corner and pretending to read. "Come on. Come see our new home." 

"Yes, Father," I say quietly, putting the book away and straightening. 

Father leads me off, along with Mother and the twins, a little ways away from the village, but still within sight of it. It had taken longer than I might have hoped for to get this place, but finally, we have a home. It's bigger than I would have hoped for, though, so perhaps that makes up for it a bit. 

"Oh, Malcolm, it's beautiful," Mother breathes. 

"It might not be what you were used to growing up in Kirkwall, love, but it was the best I could do." 

We step inside and take a look around. The rooms seem spacious compared to what I'm used to, and there's a lot more of them than I would have expected. How did Father manage to get this place? Mother is practically weeping tears of joy. 

"The children can even have their own rooms!" Mother exclaims. 

My own room? I've never had a room of my own before. 

"The big bedroom is for your mother and me," Father says. "You kids can choose which one of the small ones that you want. Don't fight over them too much." 

"I want a window!" Bethany says, rushing upstairs. 

"No, I want a window!" Carver says, going up after her. 

The three small bedrooms are little more than closets, and as it turns out, two of them have windows. As Carver and Bethany argue over which of them gets stuck with the room without a window, I step into the dark, comforting space. The two of them go quiet behind me. 

"I'll take this one," I say. 

"You don't have to--" Bethany begins. 

"It's nice in here," I say, smiling a little. "I like it." 

The walls are too thin for it to be quiet or lonely. I can hear and feel everyone else moving around in the house. But I can be alone here, where no one else can see me. I can be safe here, safe from everyone and everything else outside. It's one place in the world where I don't need to be afraid. 

"So, how do you like it?" Father asks from the hallway. 

"It's nice," I say. 

"I had a feeling you might like the one without a window," Father says. 

"How did you guess?" 

"It was just a thought." 

"Thank you, Father. I'll be really careful. I don't want to lose this place." 

No more camping out in the wilderness. No more squatting in abandoned hovels that are falling apart. For once in my life, I finally have a real home. Someplace I can be safe. I'll cherish it for what it is, and hold onto it as long as I can. 

"Are you sure you don't mind the room without a window?" Bethany wonders, poking her head in. 

"I like it," I repeat, giving her a genuine smile. 

"But it's so dark in here. I'd think it must be dreadfully miserable." 

"It's comfortable. I like it the way it is." 

"Well, I suppose, if you think so..." Bethany says dubiously. 

"I think so," I say. "Just, can you do me a favor?" 

"Anything, Sister." 

"If... if I've got the door closed, can you knock before coming in? And stay away if I want to be left alone? Please?" 

"Oh. Well, sure, I suppose so," Bethany says, sounding a little hurt. 

"That goes for everyone," I say. "Not just you. Just sometimes, I want to be by myself. You understand?" 

"Why would you want to be by yourself?" 

"I've never really had anyplace that was just _my own_ before. I want a safe place where I can be alone. If I'm angry or crying or something, I don't want anyone to see..." 

"Why not?" Bethany wonders. "We could comfort you. That's what family is for, after all, isn't it?" 

I shake my head and sigh. "Please, Bethany? Can you please indulge my selfish request?" 

Bethany hugs me. "Alright, Susan. I don't understand it. But if that's what you want, anything for you." 

"Thanks, Bethany. You're a dear." 

I have to feel a little guilty, blowing smoke like this to conceal my real problems even from my own family, the very people that I should trust most. And yet I can't trust them. Not with this. Never with this. 

They're the last people I would want to find out. Because I don't think I could bear the thought of having to kill them to protect myself. I would rather die first. But I don't believe that Ayande would give me the choice.


	3. A Boy Named Hawke

"Ah, come on, Susan, you can't spend all your time in the house!" Carver says, tugging at my sleeve. "I'm sure you can become the greatest mage ever without studying all the time." 

"I don't wanna go out," I grumble a bit. 

"Run along, dear," Mother says. "It's not good to spend all your time cooped up inside the house." 

"I don't want to go out," I repeat. 

"This is not your Circle cell, Susan," Father tells me gently. "Cherish your freedom." 

I sigh and stand up. He's right, of course. There's people outside. Strangers who might find out my secrets. But I know I can't stay hiding around in the house forever. I like it here, and it's a wonderful refuge, but if I wanted to sit around in a prison all the time, I could have gone to the Circle of Magi. 

"Be sure not to go too far from the house or the village," Mother says. 

"Yes, Mother." 

I follow Carver outside where Bethany is already waiting for us. The sun shines down brightly overhead. The summer of the year is growing old, but the chill of autumn has not fully set in even this far south. 

"Come on!" Carver says. "Let's play hide and seek! Anywhere in the village! And you're seeking, because you were hiding in the house and I found you!" 

"Do you really want me seeking?" I say, smirking a little. "I'll find you anywhere you go." 

"No you won't," Carver says. "Because you've been barely outside of the house since we moved here! And we already know our way around!" 

I chuckle. "Alright, alright. Go hide. But mark my words, I'll find you anyway!" 

I hide my eyes in my arms against the wall of the house and start to count to a hundred while the twins run off giggling. They want to challenge me, do they? Well, I'll show them. I can find anything! 

Once I'm done counting, I yell, "Ready or not, here I come!" I don't know if they're even still close enough to hear me, but I don't care. If they are, then they're either foolish or well-hidden. 

I go off into the village, stalking my prey, ready to swoop down upon them like my namesake hawk. They can't hide from me. I'll smell them out, with my super hawk smeller! Wait, can hawks even smell? I don't know. Whatever. 

I go poking around the bakery, wondering if Bethany has hidden somewhere nearby, but I don't see any sign of her anywhere. I continue on toward Dane's Refuge, looking around behind the buildings, in crates and barrels, under bushes. 

"Looking for something, little girl?" says a man's voice. 

I freeze in place with my hand halfway through opening up a barrel. My blood burns and my heart races, and I breathe heavily trying to stay calm. 

"I say you look like a grubby vagabond, a little thief," the man says, coming up and grabbing me by the arm. "What are you doing, scavenging around for crumbs, for coins? Have you stolen anything, little girl?" 

"Let me go!" I shriek. "I'm not a thief!" 

I try to squirm out of his grip, clenching my eyes shut in hopes of hiding the rage I can feel boiling over within me. I can't use my magic on him. I'm in the middle of a village. Everyone would see me. Instead, I kick him and punch him and bite him until he lets me go in surprise and pain. 

"Susan!" calls out Carver's voice, but I'm already running away. Running headlong back to my house, my home, my safe place. I can't let anyone see me like this. Are my eyes glowing? I hope my eyes aren't glowing. I can't see where I'm running with my eyes shut. Instead, I keep my gaze firmly fixed upon the ground. 

Panting softly, I race into the house, up the stairs, and into my room, slamming the door shut behind me. I lean back heavily against the door, sinking down to the floor in the safety of the darkness. But it's not complete darkness. There's a faint red cast upon the room. I'm definitely glowing. 

Not a surprise. I'm so angry. That horrible man calling me a thief! Making accusations like that out of nowhere, just because of how he thought I looked? I've never stole an thing in my life! Alright, so I might have taken a few things that were clearly lost or abandoned, but I've never outright _stolen_ anything! 

"Susan!" calls my father's voice through the door. 

"Leave me alone!" I snap back. 

I stare down at my hands. It's like glowing red veins of pure rage have appeared on my skin. I hope I'm not about to turn into some hideous monster. I crawl away from the door and hide under the bed. I don't want to be a monster. 

_That would be foolish_ , Ayande whispers in my mind. _Transforming would give you away in an instant, and cut short my jaunt into the world of mortals._

That's not really all that reassuring. I'm being kept looking human for the whims of a demon, while I fly out of control before my eyes. Wanting to fight, wanting to kill... 

"Susan!" yells Carver's voice just outside the door. "What happened? What are you doing in there?" 

"Are you alright?" adds Bethany's voice. "You aren't hurt, are you?" 

At least they came home when they heard me yelling at the man in the village. A little silly to feel guilty about the thought of them waiting around hidden when I'm not actually looking for them, perhaps. I have bigger things to worry about at the moment. I hope they don't come in here. I hope they don't see what I've become. A raging monster that would like nothing better than to kill someone who dared to make false accusations against me. I'm nothing but a monster. 

"I'm fine," I yell back at them after a moment, although it comes out as more of a growl than I'd intended. "Don't come in." 

"Are you sure?" Bethany asks. 

"I'm sure. Stay out. Please, just leave me alone," I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself a bit so that I'm not yelling at them. "I'll be out in a bit. Alright?" 

"Come on, Carver. Let's leave her alone." 

I hear their footsteps receding, and sigh in relief. I'm safe. My family won't find out that I'm an abomination today. I curl up in my position under the bed and let go for a moment, letting my anger run its course. I kind of wish that I had a place that isn't flammable. It would be quite the delight to be able to burn off my rage in violence. 

No. I shouldn't think this way. This is the demon talking, isn't it? And I should be glad to have the safe place that I have, so that I can be alone and not hurt anyone. Why would I want to commit violence? That's a horrible thought! 

My body trembling, the glow slowly starts to fade away, and I regain control of myself and my urges. The worst part is that I often don't even know where I end and the demon begins. It's a struggle sometimes just to keep my thoughts separate from those of the demon's. Ayande, the curse upon my life... 

Once I'm sure I'm completely calm and there's no visible signs of possession, I crawl out from under the bed. I open the door and head downstairs. The rest of the family is gathered in the main room, waiting for me worriedly. Bethany runs over and hugs me tightly when she sees me. 

"See, I'm fine, like I said," I say, smiling at her weakly. 

"What happened, Susan?" Father asks. 

I rub my eyes. "A man grabbed me and called me a thief." 

Father frowns deeply. "Who was it? Did you see who it was?" 

"I saw him," Carver says. "It was Barlin." 

"Barlin," Father says with a hard tone, clenching his fist. "I'll have a little talk with Barlin later. No daughter of mine is a thief!" 

"It's better than being accused of magic," Mother says quietly. 

Things wouldn't be so bad if I didn't keep getting set off on such a common phrase. _Little girl, little girl, little girl..._ I sigh and slump down into a chair. For once in my life, I wish I weren't a girl. If I were a boy, it wouldn't be so bad. I could handle being called "boy" or "lad". Not "girl". Not "little girl". 

And then, I think, why couldn't I? We haven't been in Lothering very long, and I've spent most of that time in the house. Barlin clearly didn't know me. Maybe most people don't even realize there's a Susan Hawke living here. 

"I want to a boy," I say suddenly. 

"What are you talking about?" Carver says. 

"I'm afraid my magic can't do that, Susan," Father says, quirking his lips with a touch of amusement. 

"No, I mean-- I mean... I want to cut my hair, and dress in boys' clothes, and pretend to be a boy," I say in barely more than a whisper. 

"Why would you want to do a thing like that?" Mother wonders. 

"Because-- Because..." I stammer. "I don't-- People bother girls. I don't like being called a girl. I don't want to be a target. I don't want to be a victim..." 

Father reaches over and puts a hand on my shoulder. "You'll never be a victim, my dear. You're too strong for that. But if it makes you more comfortable, then you can play the part of a boy, and I can introduce you as my son." 

"Is being a girl really that scary?" Bethany wonders, wide-eyed. 

"It's-- I think it's just me, really," I say. "Don't worry about it. It's just me. Alright?" 

"I understand," Father says. "It's alright." He squeezes my shoulder reassuringly. 

"You're already practically a boy anyway," Carver says with a smirk. 

"I suppose if it makes you feel better..." Mother says dubiously. 

"Well, if you're going to be a boy, what are we supposed to call you, then?" Carver wonders. "A boy named Susan would just be silly." 

"Maybe you could just call me Hawke," I suggest. 

"Don't be silly," Carver says. "We're all Hawke!" 

"I'd feel a little strange going by a name that isn't my own," I say. 

Father chuckles softly. "Well, I'd say that's fine. If my eldest wants to go by the name 'Hawke', that's fine by me." 

"Won't that get confusing, though?" Carver says. 

Mother sighs and quietly rocks and comforts Bethany. But as for me, I think just being a boy will be a comfort. It'll be safer that way. To protect me from others, and to protect others from myself. 

* * *

"There, all done," Mother says, setting aside her shears. "You'll make a fine young lad." 

Mother was practically weeping as she cut off my long, beautiful red hair. She had to ask me a dozen times to make sure that I was certain about this before she'd actually follow through and do it. I look down at the mass of it laid out on the table. I really had that much hair? My head feels so much lighter without it, it's a little disorienting. 

"I should make a wig out of this, perhaps," Mother says, gently touching the long locks of hair. 

Another layer of secrets on top of what I already have. Hide being a girl, hide being a mage, hide being an abomination. Perhaps if someone manages to find out one, they'll never suspect the rest. 

"Bethany can wear your old girl clothes when she gets bigger," Mother says. "I've got new boy clothes for you to try on. Here, let's get these trousers on you and we can see how this looks on you." 

I've always worn girl clothes, skirts and dresses. Boy clothes are going to feel a little strange at first. I stumble and struggle trying to get the trousers on for the first time, and Mother has to help me with it a bit. It definitely feels strange having cloth pressing up all over my legs. Then there's a tunic, belt, and boots. Once it's all done, Mother steps back and looks me over appraisingly. 

"A fine, strapping young lad," Mother says with something of a strained, forced voice. "You'll be the envy of all the girls, I'm sure." 

"Is that my big, bold son there?" Father says. 

"Yes, Father," I reply, beaming at him. 

"Well, you're smiling again, so that's something at least," Father says. "Come along, Hawke. I want to introduce you to some people in town. And remember, walk like a boy. You're not wearing a dress, so don't act like it." 

I head out along with him, putting on the act of a boy. It's strange, but I find that I like wearing trousers, and being called Hawke. It makes me feel stronger, safer, more confident. Less weak and vulnerable. 

"Good day, Malcolm," says a grizzled man, looking over to us. "Who's this lad you've got with you today? Your son?" 

"Indeed, Ruben. This is my eldest. He doesn't like his given name, so he prefers to go by just Hawke," Father says, lips quirking with a touch of amusement. 

"Well then, Hawke," Ruben says. "Going to grow up to be just like your papa?" 

"I hope so, ser," I say. 

My father's a good person. A good mage. But I already have no hope of ever being like him. I'm an abomination. I have a demon in my head constantly prodding me toward violence. It's only by my own stubbornness and will that I haven't killed anyone I didn't mean to. 

Yet. Can that last forever, though? How long until I lose control and start slaughtering people? I'm a danger to everyone around me already. Maybe the templars were right after all. 

_Stop thinking like this_ , Ayande says firmly in my mind. _The templars have no right to dictate anything you do._

"Hawke," Father's voice cuts into my thoughts. "Ruben asked you a question." 

"Oh," I say dumbly. "I'm sorry. I was distracted for a moment." 

Ruben chuckles softly. "Just like my own boy, Maron. Always daydreaming. I asked what you wanted to do when you grow up. Maron wants to be a templar someday." 

My eyes widen a bit, and I try not to visibly tense up at that. "Maybe I'll be an adventurer, like my father was. Traveling all over the place and righting wrongs and helping the helpless!" 

Ruben laughs aloud. "You've got quite the ambition there, young man. But if that's what you want to do, then I hope you can stick to your dreams, and don't just turn into a mercenary doing questionable things for a handful of coins." 

"And then maybe, like my father, I can eventually find someone nice to settle down and raise a family with," I add more quietly. 

Father grins a little at me. "Hopefully sooner rather than later. The adventuring life can be dangerous business. You don't want to wind up having to retire because of a debilitating injury, or worse." 

He doesn't need to state the "worse" part. Worse, winding up hauled off to the Circle, or made Tranquil, or even killed. I intend to avoid that at all costs, however. Even if it means relying on Ayande to secure my freedom. 

"I'll be careful," I promise him, grinning a little. 

I'm not going to let being an abomination get me down, or get in the way of my hopes and dreams. If I'm doomed to be steered toward violence, I can still find a way to use violence to help people. It would be particularly nice if I could have a safe place to go back to in the meantime, though. 

Ah, here I am, thinking of the future, dreaming of good times, when I'm not even sure whether I'm going to make it through the next month, never mind the next year, or decade. And wasn't it not so very long ago that I said I was tired of being on the run all the time? Yet I've gotten used to it, and it wouldn't be so bad if there were some purpose to it beyond merely avoiding notice from the templars. 

As we're heading home, Father says, "I'm going to have to teach you to fight, I suppose. Without resorting to... special tactics. Fight with your hands, with a staff, with a knife. How to read your opponent's moves and avoid getting hurt." 

"I'd like that," I say. 

"Appropriate things for a boy to know, especially when he's intending on taking up such a path." 

I grin at him. "I'm sure you'd teach me those sorts of things even if I were a girl, if I wanted to know, though." 

"Ah, you know me too well," Father says, chuckling. "Women can be excellent fighters as well, of course. I've known some in my time that could give any man a run for his sovereigns, even the women who weren't mages." 

We come into the house, and Father goes over to look through a collection of weapons that he always carries around. No matter where we go or how much we wander, we've always been well-armed. He pulls out a simple-looking wooden staff and hands it over to me, as well as bringing out one for himself. 

"Here, let me show you some of what you can accomplish without magic," Father says. "I can only wish that you and poor Bethany had been born without that curse. But I can at least show you how to use a staff to fight with, as well." 

We head out into the clearing beside the house, and Father starts to show me how to hold the staff properly, to move with it, how to use it for offense and defense. After a while, I glance over to the side of the clearing, and realize Carver is sitting there watching with rapt attention. 

"I want to learn to fight, too!" Carver says energetically. "But I want to use a sword, not some stick." 

"Don't make the mistake of underestimating the staff," Father says. "It is more than merely a walking stick or a tool of mages. A staff can be a potent weapon in its own right, when wielded by skilled hands." 

"I'd still rather use a sword," Carver says, making a distasteful face. "Leave the sticks to the mages." 

"Suit yourself," Father says. "But you're still much too young to be wielding a real weapon yet. You're eight years old. There will be many years ahead of you for bloodshed, if that is the path you've set your heart upon. I can only hope that you choose to wield your blade in the name of what is right: Justice, honor, duty, tempered with mercy, compassion, love." 

"Aw, all that mushy stuff," Carver says, rolling his eyes. 

Father chuckles softly. "That 'mushy stuff' as you call it, is what separates you from being merely a common thug, or a soldier who blindly follows any order, no matter how wrong he knows it to be in his heart." 

"Isn't it a good thing to be loyal?" I say, raising an eyebrow at Father. 

"Loyalty is a good trait to have, but leaders are people too, and people can make mistakes. And their goals may not always agree with yours. Be careful who you offer your loyalty to, and remember that your leader, captain, general, or even king is only a man. Or a woman. Only human. Or an elf, or a dwarf. Maybe even a Qunari. Anyway." 

"What's a Qunari?" Carver wonders. 

"They're a race of horned giants from the north," Father explains. "You might go your entire life without ever meeting one. But if you do, beware. They have the strength of ten men, and they have trained from birth to be fierce warriors." 

"Surely they can't all be warriors," I say dubiously. 

"I once had the misfortune of doing battle with one of their mages," Father says. "Such violence and destruction. No subtlety to it, just raw power, brute force, wielding magic like a bludgeon." 

"There must be farmers and crafters somewhere, too, though," I say. "They can't just _all_ fight." 

"I'm sure they do, but they're never seen outside of their homeland of Par Vollen," Father says. "And no outsiders ever come there. But, we're getting off track. Let us practice for a bit longer before your mother calls us in for dinner." 

Carver watches for a little while more before getting bored and wandering off to find Bethany to play with. I, however, am focused. I find that this sort of fighting practice helps to keep my rage in check more easily. 

I spend some time reading for a bit after dinner. I find myself calmer now. It's easier to concentrate on the words before my eyes. I'm not fighting boiling rage bubbling up from underneath my skin every moment, itching and making me constantly fidget. Maybe I did really just need to find an outlet for it. 

I feel like I can better manage my unfortunate condition now. And now, I can be Hawke, a strong young man who can handle anything that life throws at him. I don't have to be weak and soft. I don't have to be a _little girl_. 

Itch. Fidget. Twitch. Even the very thought makes my skin crawl. I force it down, close my book, and head up to my room to try to get some sleep. Hawke is strong. Hawke can face nightmares without flinching. Susan doesn't need to be afraid anymore.


	4. Girl Trouble

"Oh, now he's a cute one. What's his name?" says a giggling girl. 

"I heard his name is Hawke," says another girl shyly to the first one. "They said his family just moved here this summer." 

"Well, I think he's adorable! You should go over there and say hello to him." 

"No way! That would be way too embarrassing. Besides, what if he's already got someone he's interested in? I'd be mortified!" 

My face feels like it's burning. Afraid of another rage episode, I firmly put my eyes to the ground and quickly make my way back home. I don't think I'm angry, and I wouldn't think their words would be anything worth getting angry over, but I can't be too careful. A bit of extra caution certainly can't hurt, when it would be disastrous to be discovered as an abomination. 

When I get inside the house, Mother intercepts me before I can get up the stairs to safety. "Dear, did you get the vegetables from the market I sent you for?" 

I look away, trying to hide my face. If my eyes are glowing, there's no way that I want my mother to see that. I mumble in reply, "Uh, no, not yet, Mother. Sorry." 

"Oh! You're blushing, dear," Mother says. "Did you see a handsome lad out there? Or maybe a pretty girl?" 

I'm blushing. Just blushing. Not in the middle of a fit of anger. How embarrassing. I let out a heavy sigh. My paranoia was for nothing. Well, I guess that's one thing I don't need to worry about, then. 

"There were some girls out in the village, giggling over me," I say. "They called me cute." 

"Ah, I see," Mother says. "Well, no need to be afraid of them. Why don't you go out and meet them? And bring those vegetables back, too!" 

"Yes, Mother," I say lightly, grinning a bit. 

I head back outside again, more boldly this time. Mother's right. There's no reason to be scared. I am Hawke, a dashing young lad. Hawke protests little girls. He isn't afraid of them. 

One of the girls who was there before is still at the marketplace when I return. A shy, dark-haired girl who looks to be around thirteen or fourteen. 

"Hello," I say to her. 

The girl blushes and looks away. "If-- if you want to buy something, you should talk to my father." 

"I'll get to that in a moment," I say. "Right now I just wanted to talk to _you_ , if that's alright. I'm Hawke. What's your name?" 

"Um... Allison." 

"That's a pretty name," I say with a bit of a grin. 

Allison blushes even more fiercely. "Um... thank you." 

I lean closer to her and say more quietly, "You don't need to be scared of me, Allison. I'm not going to hurt you. And if anyone does try to hurt you, I'll show them what for." 

Allison looks like she wants to sink into the ground or turn invisible. "That's-- that's nice of you to say, but I'm sure I'll be alright." 

"My father's been teaching me how to fight, so I can protect people." 

"Really?" Allison stammers a bit. "Are you-- Will you be some great knight someday? A templar? A soldier in the king's army? Maybe even a Grey Warden?" 

"I was thinking I could be an adventurer," I say. "Traveling around the world, saving people beset by misfortune, slaying bandits and monsters." 

"A mercenary?" Allison says dubiously. 

"No, no," I say. "A hero!" 

"How can you plan on being a hero?" 

"Well, I'll just find people who are in trouble, and help them! How hard can it be?" 

"So, you're hoping that people will get into trouble just so that you can help them?" Allison says, eyes widening. "That's awful!" 

"I didn't mean it like that! I mean-- I mean, people are going to get into trouble anyway, right? Things happen, you know?" 

"You hope bad things will happen just so you can save people!" Allison says, turning and running away crying. 

"Allison!" I call out. 

A burly farmer steps up and towers over me, and says, "Have you been making my little girl cry?" 

I tense up at his words, clenching my fists. I breathe heavily, trying to stay calm. "I didn't mean to!" I protest. 

"What did you say to her, boy?" 

"I just said I wanted to be a hero and help people..." I say, looking firmly at the ground. "What's so bad about that?" 

"Bah, heroes. Good, hard work is a better thing to aspire to. People who work hard every day of their lives don't get any recognition. But one so-called _hero_ swoops in and saves the day, and gets praised lavished all over him. It's ridiculous." 

"I never thought of it that way," I say, sighing. "I just wanted to do something good, you know?" 

"If you want to do something good and fight, then become a soldier, not some two-bit vagabond mercenary that runs around trying to play hero." 

Maybe it's a foolish thing to hope for, I know. But I never want any girl, or any mage, to have to go through what I went through. If I can save some girl from men who would do harm to her, or some mage from giving themselves over to a demon, then is that wish so wrong? It would be foolish to think it won't happen just because I hope it doesn't, either. 

I nod vaguely to the farmer and mumble another apology, whether it's especially sincere or not, and walk away. I haven't given up the idea, though. Not yet. Not nearly so easily. 

How many mages, I wonder, turn to demons and blood magic in order to defend themselves? I want to stop them from having to walk down that path if I can. I can be the sacrifice, so that others need not walk in darkness. I'm already lost, but maybe, just maybe, if I can save even just one soul, it will have all been worthwhile. My sacrifice will have been worth it. 

And if people wind up discovering my secret and hating me for it, killing me for it, then so be it. So long as I can help just one person, my life will have been worth living. 

* * *

"I just can't think of you as my brother!" Bethany says to me indignantly. "You're my sister, Susan! This is all really confusing." 

"You'll get used to it, Bethany," I assure her. 

"Why do you have to do this, anyway? You're a girl like me, not a boy." 

"I like being Hawke. I like wearing trousers. Alright?" 

Bethany pouts a little. "You're really strange sometimes, you know that, don't you?" 

I chuckle softly. "I know." I muss up her hair with my hand. "But you love me anyway." 

She's another _little girl_ that I need to protect. I don't want what happened to me wind up happening to Bethany, too. She's so sweet and gentle and innocent. I don't want anyone to ever hurt her. And I will gladly _kill_ anyone that ever tries to hurt her. 

I wonder, had our positions been reversed, if Bethany would have taken the deal with the demon that I did. Would she have taken the power needed to save herself? Would she have surrendered to the templar? Or would she have stubbornly fought to the death without once turning to dark things? I hope that neither of us ever has to find out. 

"It's just weird that I won't be able to talk to you about girl stuff, or drag you along to look at shoes with my friends, or anything," Bethany says. 

"You can still talk to me about girl stuff," I say, and then make a face. "And you know I would rather not get dragged along to look at shoes, whether I'm a girl _or_ a boy." I pause for a moment, and cock my head at her. "Have you been making a lot of friends here in Lothering?" 

"I've met a girl named Tamra," Bethany says. "We get on well. I'm sure we'll be best of friends forever." 

She looks so happy, I don't want to spoil what joy she can find in life. Reality may or may not wind up tearing her away from her new friend, sooner or later, but there's no sense in deflating her with cynical comments. 

"I'm glad to hear it," I say. 

"Do you want to meet her sometime?" 

I think about it for a moment, then smirk and shake my head. "No, you can keep your friend to yourself. You can giggle about shoes with her all you like. I'll take my boots, thanks." I chuckle a bit. 

"I guess you always were more of a boy, even when you were being a girl. It's still really confusing having to remember to call you my brother!" 

I'm not a bad person for wanting to protect her. I don't wish anything bad would happen to her just so I can get to be a hero. I just know that it's going to happen whether I want it to or not. And when trouble comes, I will be there, with staff and fire in my hands, to keep it at bay. I won't let anyone or anything bring harm to my precious little sister. 

If protect means to kill... then I can protect. I can protect. 

* * *

One morning, as the onset of winter brings closer my thirteenth naming day, I wake up to find myself bleeding. I freak out so badly at first that molten veins appear all over my skin, thinking that this clearly must be a sign of demonic corruption, or some blood magic ritual gone horribly awry, or something. 

I take some deep breaths and calm down. No, it's nothing like that. Mother told me about this. It's a sign of a girl becoming a woman. I'm not a little girl any longer. The glow around my body slowly fades away. I really should have expected this sooner or later. This is probably going to make it harder to be Hawke. 

I clean up as best as I can, and go downstairs to tell Mother. I don't want to get my good boy clothes all bloody. Bleeding from the crotch would probably be a good sign to anyone paying attention that I'm not really a boy. 

"Ah, my little girl is becoming a woman," Mother says, smiling at me fondly. When she sees me tense up at her words, she quickly adds, "We'll have to cover this up, of course. Don't worry. You can still be a boy." 

"Am I still going to be able to go out and practice fighting and do stuff?" I wonder. 

"Certainly, my dear," Mother says. "Whatever horrible stories you might have heard, this is all perfectly normal and natural, and you don't need to stop your life for it, however you choose to live it." 

"Well, that's good to hear," I say. 

"You're just going to need to be a little more careful during certain times. They might not even come every month, especially if you're doing a lot of fighting and moving around." 

That's a relief. I was a little worried that I'd wind up being utterly useless a full quarter of the time. That thought was enough to make me wish that I'd _actually_ been born a boy. 

"Although if you decide to keep being a boy for too much longer, you might have to start binding your breasts, too," Mother says a little sadly. "Nothing to worry about now, though. You're flat as a board still." 

Still, even after Mother helps me get things set up, I'm too nervous to set foot outside at the moment. I curl up quietly to do a bit of studying inside instead. Father doesn't keep around many books on magic, since they were dangerous if anyone discovered that he had them, but the ones he has are valuable and worth reading over again and again for new insights. 

As I'm reading, I overhear my parents talking to one another in the next room. They probably don't think I can hear them from here. 

"Malcolm, I don't know if it's healthy for a girl to pretend to be a boy like this," Mother is saying to him. 

"I'm sure she'll get over it in a few years, Leandra. I wouldn't worry about it. I'll support her in any way I can no matter what she decides to do, after all." 

"Surely you can't mean that, Malcolm. What if she wanted to be a blood mage or something?" 

"Then I will explain to her the risks and dangers involved, and if she still wants to follow that path, then I will point her in the right direction to learn about it as safely as possible without having to consort with demons or other unpleasant characters." 

"But blood magic is evil!" 

"There's nothing inherently evil about the magic itself," Father says. "It's just that the purposes most of its practitioners put it to, and the means they take to acquire knowledge of it. If I used blood magic to seal away demons, would that make me evil?" 

"Well, I suppose not..." Mother says dubiously. 

"Regardless, we're not talking about blood magic here. She hasn't expressed any interest in that, and I'll deal with that if it should happen. No, we're just talking about a girl wearing trousers." 

I absently wonder if my father _would_ really be alright with me learning blood magic. It's not like I have any particular interest in it, but it's a point of curiosity if nothing else. I'm already an abomination, after all. It's not like I have anything else left to lose. I can't exactly get possessed _again_. 

But that's just idle curiosity. I don't really want to be a blood mage, anyway. 

"Still, there's only so many years when she'll be able to pass as a boy," Mother goes on. "Perhaps, in time, she will feel confident and comfortable in being herself as a strong woman." 

"One day. But we must allow her time to grow into that on her own, and not force the issue." 

"Ah, Malcolm, perhaps you're right. You have the patience of a Chantry brother." 

"Maker, I should certainly hope not," Father says, chuckling. "Or at least, hope that that's all I have in common with them." 

Later that evening, after dinner, my father is telling me about some bits of magical theory as the others are heading up to bed. He's spending some time going on about directing magical energy, putting more power into spells, and then he starts talking about sources for mana. 

"Lyrium can be helpful to let you cast more than you'd otherwise be able to, if you can get your hands on it," Father is saying. "The potions can be expensive, especially on the black market. The Circle would like to think that it can actually regulate all lyrium trade on the surface." He snorts softly in amusement. "Although if you learn a bit of alchemy and can get a good source of the dust, you can make a tidy profit by making the potions. I make quite good money just off of making healing potions, and elfroot can be found everywhere." 

"Hmm," I say thoughtfully. "What about blood? That can be used to fuel magic too, can't it? That's what blood mages do, right?" 

Father goes quiet for a few moment before saying, "Ah, yes, yes they do. Why do you ask?" He clearly seems to be afraid that I'm going to want to learn blood magic next. 

"Just wondering," I say. 

"Blood magic is also very dangerous, and it can cost an unwary mage their life or their very soul," Father warns me. "And if you're wondering about whether menstrual blood can be used in blood magic, then you're asking completely the wrong person." He smirks faintly. 

I snicker softly. "That was not what I was asking about." 

"Good," Father says. "Because, as a man, that's something I generally prefer not to think about, never mind find out how it's actually used." 

"You brought it up, not me. I was just asking about blood magic." 

"Right, of course," Father says, clearing his throat a bit. "While blood magic can be very powerful, and allow you do things that would not otherwise be available, or do very difficult things more easily, there are also substantial risks involved that you should be aware of." 

"Like what?" I ask. 

"Not the least of which is that an apostate discovered by the templars might get off with just being sent to the Circle of Magi, if you're lucky, but a blood mage is more likely to be put to death immediately if they realize what they are. And many blood mages turn to demons for the sake of gaining power. But it's not necessary to make a bargain with a demon just to learn blood magic." 

"If it's not necessary, then why do people do it?" I wonder. 

"I'm sure some of them see it as the quick and easy way. They don't want to have to work for their power, and so they take it unearned, with the price of their souls in the process." 

"I see," I say, staring off thoughtfully. "Father, tell me. What would you do if I ever wound up becoming an abomination?" 

Father frowns deeply, and says, "I'd put you out of your misery for your own good, so you didn't have to live with being controlled by a demon. Bargains with demons are never worth it. No matter what's happening, always refuse, no matter how good the deal might sound at first." 

_He must never find out_ , murmurs Ayande in my mind. 

I'd already figured that out myself, thanks. 

"What brought on this grim line of thought, anyway?" Father asks. 

"Just... thinking," I say, looking away. "I always wind up thinking about the worst thing that could possibly happen, you know? I figure if I'm prepared for that, then I'm prepared for anything." 

"You've changed a lot, since... since we moved to Lothering." Father frowns at me. "You used to smile a lot more before then. Are you alright? Are you unhappy here?" 

"I'm happy here," I say. "Just... you're right, things have changed." 

_Must not find out, must not find out, must not find out..._

"I see," Father says. "I understand. You've been through a lot. Nobody should have to face that sort of thing, especially at your age. You've handled it all remarkably well, however." 

"What, even with pretending to be a boy?" 

"Yes, even considering that. I've seen people that would handle their problems by drowning their sorrows in drink, spend every last coin for another ale, or take every opportunity they can find to spend time in brothels." 

"I'd think I'm a little young for those sorts of things still," I point out with a faint grin. 

"I'm just glad to see you smile at all. And I'll happily do anything in my power to keep you smiling. Even if that means settling down and risking templars knocking on our door, dressing you in trousers and calling you my son, or even teaching you blood magic." 

I smile at him and reach over to give him a tight hug. "I think I'm happy just to have a father like you." Even if he seems to draw the line at being an abomination for what is acceptable for his child to do. 

_Must not must not must not must not must not..._

I head up to bed myself, and curl up under the sheets, trying to peacefully go to sleep. I still have nightmares, but they've been a bit more bearable lately. I'm no longer quite so horrified at the idea of having to kill people in order to protect myself. I realize that that might not be such a good thing, though. But I've by now rationalized the deaths of those boys and that templar as having been necessary. 

However, tonight, I'm having trouble sleeping again. I can't get my father's words out of my mind. _Put me out of my misery_ , indeed. I'm not miserable. I'm not actually being controlled by a demon. So far as I know. Most of the time. 

My father is a wonderful person. The idea of him killing me, and thinking that it's the right thing to do, is enough to chill my blood. 

_Rage, rage, rage. How dare he presume to know what's best for you. This was all your own choice. If he claims to respect your choices, then he should respect this one as well!_

I shudder involuntarily, trembling beneath the sheets. My blood boils and my skin burns. Faint red light plays in the darkness around me. Tears well up in my eyes, and they're burning too, like molten metal welling up onto my face. 

I just can't help but wonder if my father is right. Should I die, for the sake of protecting everyone around me from the danger that I might pose to them? 

_That's ridiculous. You're not a danger to anyone unless you wish to be._

Unless they threaten me, at least. Like my father might make himself a threat to me. 

_If they wish harm upon you, then they deserve to die, no matter who they are._

I can't think like that. I don't want to think like that. 

_Can you argue with it, though? Can you deny that it's true?_

I don't want to have to make that decision. 

_You don't have to. It's an easy one. Defend yourself, protect your own life, at any cost._

I don't want to have to be put in that position. 

_Then he must not find out. No one must ever find out._

He must not find out. 

_Or I will kill him._

I cry myself to sleep.


	5. A Secret Revealed

"If you're heading out, take Carver along with you," Father tells me. "And be careful. Bandits have been sighted along the roads near town." 

"Yes, Father," I say. "I'll be sure to bring back lots of herbs for you." 

"Your friend Allison has gone missing. I saw a posting on the Chanter's board about it. I'm going to go see if I can find her while you're gone. We could use the sovereigns. Don't you go looking for her yourself, you hear? It's much too dangerous." 

"Of course, Father. I'll be careful." 

I'm fourteen years old now, and I'm still a little uneasy about going off into the forest to collect herbs. I won't be by myself this time, but Carver's still only ten years old, and he's not even a mage, so it's not like he'd be much help in a fight. No matter. I will kill anyone that bothers us myself, whether they be bandits or templars. And templars are pretty doubtful. 

"Carver!" I call out, locating the boy out practicing in the yard with a wooden sword. "We're heading out to the forest to collect herbs for Father's potion making. Grab your knife and a bag and come along." 

"Great!" Carver says in rapt enthusiasm, rushing back into the house to get ready. He returns after a moment with a bag to collect herbs in and a knife at his belt, the biggest real weapon that he's allowed to carry at this point. "Am I going to get a chance to stab some bandits?" 

"I should certainly hope not. But we'd best be careful, or we might just run into some of them. More likely, though, we might run into giant spiders instead." 

"I haven't gotten a chance to use this fine blade in a real fight yet," Carver says, pulling out the knife and waving it around a bit. 

"And with any luck, you still won't. Let's not go looking for trouble." 

I lead the way away from the house, absently leaning on my staff a little as though it's an ordinary walking stick. So long as I make sure not to leave any witnesses, I can just use my magic to take care of any bandits that we might happen to run across. I can protect Carver, and I can protect myself. 

I have no reason to fear going out to collect herbs. I am Hawke, a bold adventurer, and there's nothing that I can't handle. Wolves and bandits should tremble before my might! I have to chuckle a little to myself at that thought. 

"What are you grinning about?" Carver asks. 

"Nothing," I reply lightly. It feels good to laugh. Laughter helps to keep the rage away. 

"You're silly." 

"That's nothing new." 

"I've known that for a long time," Carver says. "Ever since you became my brother Hawke!" 

I chuckle again. That almost came out as a giggle. But boys don't giggle. Not that I'm really too worried about anyone seeing or overhearing us all the way out here, but I've been in the habit of staying in the act anytime I'm not in the house, and most of the time that I'm in the house, even. 

We start to hunt for elfroot. Father's healing potions are always in demand, by villagers and travelers alike. They're the main thing that has kept us fed and clothed over the years, since Father stopped taking much actual mercenary work, aside from the occasional posting on the Chanter's board. 

We're some ways away from the village, and can't see the buildings through the trees from here. It's further than I've ever been from Lothering by myself since we arrived here. I'm tense, every muscle in my body on alert for danger. 

Carver frowns a little as he looks over toward me. "Think there's trouble?" 

I lower my voice, and murmur, "Quiet. I think I heard something." 

There it is again. Footsteps upon leaves, voices in the distance. That wasn't wolves or giant spiders. I crouch down, listening carefully and taking a few steps closer. Could be bandits, could just be travelers or hunters. I don't want to take the chance, though. Best to just steer clear of anyone else. I start to move away quietly. 

"Is it bandits?" Carver says. "Where are you going? You coward! I want to fight!" He turns and charges through the trees straight in the direction of the voices I'd heard. "Die, bandits!" 

"Carver!" I call out after him, rushing off in the direction he went. "Stop!" 

My heart pounds. If anything happens to Carver, I don't know what I'll do. How could I ever tell Father and Mother that I'd let one of my little siblings get hurt under my watch? 

Carver charges straight for a cluster of armed, rugged looking men. They might be bandits, but then again, they might not. 

"What's this?" one of them says, looking at Carver and laughing aloud. "A little bratling trying to play hero, huh?" 

The man easily parries Carver's clumsy attack, and then kicks him aside almost casually. The other two laugh thuggishly and punch him and kick him as well. 

Rage boils up in me at seeing this. "You leave my brother alone!" I growl, my voice sounding strange, deeper than it usually does. When I raise my hands to call fire down upon them, I see that I'm glowing. 

"Mage!" yells one of the bandits, taking a step back. 

"Apostate!" says the second. 

"Not just a mage!" says the third one, already starting to make a break for it. "That's an abomination, you fools!" 

I bring flames to bear upon the two who weren't as quick to run away, charring their bodies before they have a chance to do much more than draw a blade against me. The two bandits crumple to the forest floor. As enraged as I might be, I'm still careful not to accidentally hit Carver with my magic. 

I run after the third one, hurling fiery bolts after him. Maybe this time, I can even manage to avoid starting a forest fire, too. I don't want to hurt Carver, or _myself_ , after all. But I'm not completely in control, regardless. I'm at the whims of rage. Ayande's mind presses down upon me. 

_Burn them... Burn them all..._

And I must burn. Breaking through the line of trees, it turns out that the three of them weren't too far from a much larger encampment. There's at least two dozen armed men here, and several tents have been set up, and campfires with rabbits and pots of stew. 

I hear a voice from inside one of the tents, a woman calling, "Help! Somebody please help me!" 

"Nobody can hear you, little girl," says a low, growling voice. "Nobody's going to come and help you." 

I was angry enough as it was, but that tips me over the edge, losing all semblance of control. Flames runs up and down my skin as Ayande takes over. 

"Abomination!" screams the bandit fleeing from me into the camp. "Kill it! Kill it quick!" 

The bandits, who had been lounging around by their campfires, chatting and eating, scramble to their feet and grab for their weapons. I rain fire down upon the camp, setting some of the tents ablaze. 

I look through the camp, searching for the woman who had cried out for help. A half-dressed man stumbles out of one of the tents, sword in hand. I roar in fury and raise my hands at him, engulfing him in flames. He screams in agony as he dies, and I feel a surge of satisfaction. A nearly naked woman crawls out of the tent, wide-eyed, looking at me in terror. I distantly recognize her as Allison, from the village. 

Must kill more. Must destroy. As I spin around, I feel a slash at my arm. A bandit stands before me, holding a dagger tipped with blood. He'd been in the midst of trying to stab me when I'd moved suddenly, and he struck my forearm instead of my back. Now I have blood running freely down my left hand. 

I'm surrounded by bandits, all pointing swords at me, and a few of them have grabbed bows and are starting to pelt arrows at me. As I realize the danger I am in, I manage to dodge a few of them, burn others to ashes before they get close, but two of them embed themselves in my shoulder. 

_Blood magic... destroy them all!_

I don't know much about blood magic. But Ayande does. It's so simple, and the blood is already here at my fingertips. Why not make use of it? Why not use this to save myself and Allison, and exact vengeance for what has been done to her? 

Blood pours out of my wrist and rises into the air to swirl around me. There is such power here, my head feels a little light at the sensation. Or maybe it's just the pain and blood loss. Whichever. 

_Kill, kill, kill!_

A holocaust of flames swirls around me, a raging storm of fire, raining death and destruction upon everything around me, everything except for myself and the poor woman standing just behind me. The poor woman who doesn't seem to be sure whether she wants to cower in fear, or run screaming away from me. 

The world is burning. I stand still as the last bandit's screams fade away into death. The forest is quiet but for the crackling of flames. 

"You-- you're a monster! A blood mage!" Allison whimpers, then utters a few lines from the Chant of Light. "They shall be named maleficar, accursed ones. They shall find no rest in this world, or beyond." 

"Who are you to speak that way to me?" I growl at her. "I just saved you from these foul men!" 

"Please... please don't hurt me," Allison murmurs, groveling on her knees before me. 

The sight of her is enough to cool my rage. I close my eyes for a moment and let out a heavy sigh. "I did not come here to harm you, Allison." 

"Hawke? Is that you?" Allison says in surprise. "I-- I didn't recognize you at first, looking like-- like that and all..." 

"I'm not going to hurt you, Allison," I assure her. "Come on, this whole place is on fire. Let's get out of here." I also remember that I left Carver out in the forest somewhere. I hope he's alright. 

She follows after me reluctantly, after a moment of clearly trying to decide whether I or not I'm a greater danger than burning to death. "I never realized that you were an apostate," Allison murmurs, her voice quavering. "A blood mage, no less." 

"Since I did save you, would it be entirely too much to ask for you to keep quiet about that, please?" I say, wincing a little in pain. The arrows in my left shoulder don't look good, and my forearm is still bleeding. I'll have Father take a look at it when I get home. 

"You were... much scarier than the bandits back there." 

"And I did it all to help you." Not really, but it sounds good. It's not like I'd actually gone out with the intent of finding her or anything. 

"I suppose I'm sounding ungrateful. I'm really, really grateful. But... don't you think you'd be better off with the Circle?" 

Rage flares up again suddenly, and I snap, "No! I have no intention of being a prisoner just for being a mage! Especially not to willingly allow myself to be!" 

"You-- you're glowing again, Hawke," Allison says, her eyes widening. "You're really scary when you do that. Could-- could you please stop?" 

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to force myself to be calm again. "My apologies." 

"Do you mages normally glow like that?" 

I have to laugh a little at that. She doesn't even realize what it means. "It's just a quirk of mine. Don't worry about it." 

"If you say so," Allison says dubiously. 

I glance around the forest near the camp for any sign of Carver. "My little brother was around here somewhere. I hope he's alright." 

"You took your baby brother to fight bandits?" 

"No," I say. "I took my baby brother to pick elfroot. I wasn't planning on finding the bandits. My father was going to try to find you. But when I saw them..." 

Carver drops down from a tree limb overhead. "You killed them? You really killed them all?" 

I glance back at the burning camp. "I could have done so in a less dramatic manner, perhaps." 

Allison sighs. "I hope you're happy now. You got the chance to be a hero. You hoped something bad would happen to me, and it did." 

"I didn't hope anything bad would happen!" I protest. 

"If it's all the same to you, Hawke..." Allison says hesitantly. "I don't think I want to talk to you anymore. I won't tell anyone you're a blood mage. Maker knows I don't want to sound ungrateful for you saving me from those horrible men. But... just... don't talk to me. Ever again. Please. You're a really scary person." 

I sigh softly. "I'm sorry for scaring you, Allison. That's all I can ask of you. Go in peace." 

Allison turns and practically runs back toward the village, leaving me alone with Carver to make our way home. I clench my teeth at the pain. My head is swimming, and I have to lean heavily upon my staff just to walk straight. Now that I'm not empowered by rage, my wounds are catching up to me. 

"You're bleeding," Carver points out. 

"I know," I say. 

"What _was_ up with that glowy stuff? Papa and Bethany don't do that when they do magic, and you never have before." 

I sigh. I knew this was coming. "Carver, there's something I need to tell you, and you need to promise me that you won't tell anyone else, alright? Not Bethany, not Mother, and especially not Father." 

"Not even Papa?" Carver says, eyes widening. "Well, okay. I won't tell anyone. But you have to not tell Papa that I started the fight with the bandits." 

"Deal," I say, grinning a little. "Carver... two years ago, I was possessed by a rage demon named Ayande." 

"Ayande?" Carver repeats. "Demons have names?" 

Of all the things for Carver to latch onto, he picks up on _that_? I smirk a bit, and say, "That's what she--no, _it_ \--told me its name was." 

"So... you're an abomination, then." 

I give a nod. "I'm in control, for the most part. But sometimes I get angry and start glowing. Usually I just hide away in my room until it settles down." 

"Oh! So that's why you go in there and don't want anyone to look at you!" 

"Yes. That's why I do it." 

"But..." Carver says, frowning a bit and looking at me questioningly. "Papa says being an abomination is really bad. He says if you make a deal with a demon, then you lose your soul." 

"I don't know about my soul, but it's a little late to worry about that now," I say. "I accepted a demon's offer in order to kill a templar who threatened me. And while I've regretted that moment of weakness ever since, all I can do now is fight and try to stay in control as much as possible." 

"Does Ayande control you much? Is it scary? Do you wake up sometimes with blood on your hands and you can't remember who you killed?" 

"You have an incredible imagination," I say. "What sort of stories has Father been telling you, anyway?" I smirk. "But no, it's not like that. I don't think Ayande ever actually controls me directly, strangely enough. But she stokes the flames of my own anger, and encourages me to cause death and destruction. I didn't even hurt Allison, after all..." 

"Well, if you only kill who you want to kill, then I don't see how it's really so bad," Carver says. "And the way you took down those bandits was really scary, but awesome too!" 

The problem is that I'm afraid that I will wind up killing someone who I _don't_ actually want to kill. But I think it best that I keep those fears quiet from Carver right now. Good enough that he seems accepting enough of this, even if he doesn't really seem to understand it. I just hope that he doesn't tell anyone or accidentally let something slip. 

"I'm perfectly alright," I say. "But Father would explode if he found out..." 

Carver nods sagely, and then grins at me. "Papa won't find out from _me_." 

"Thanks, Carver. I'd hoped I could count on you." 

We get back home and head inside. I'm feeling pretty awful by this point, and slump down into the nearest chair once in the house. I need to get some potions into me, and need to get these arrows out of me. 

"Oh, Maker," Mother says, coming out into the main room and seeing the state I'm in. "Your father isn't back yet, but let's get you some potions as soon as possible. What in Andraste's name happened?" 

"We ran into some bandits," I say. "They... got the jump on us." 

Mother brings out a vial and puts it to my lips, and I drink down the cool liquid gratefully. The pain starts to ease a bit at that. But then she notices the blood on my forearm, and lifts my hand, frowning. 

"Have you been using blood magic?" Mother asks in a strange tone. 

"If I'd been planning to use blood magic, I wouldn't have cut the _outside_ of my wrist like that," I reply, not actually answering her question. "That was from a bandit." 

Mother nods, and then takes a look at my shoulder. I wince in pain as she pokes at the arrow wounds. As she's doing that, Bethany comes into the house, and drops the basket of fruit she's carrying with a gasp upon seeing me. 

"Maker, what happened?" Bethany says, rushing up to my side. "Are you alright? Oh, of course you're not alright, you're hurt! I should have been practicing my healing magic more." 

"I'm sure I'll be fine," I say. "Relax, Bethany." I smile weakly at her in an attempt to reassure her. 

Mother makes a shooing motion at the two of them. "You two run along and give your sibling some room to breathe. I'll take care of this. And if you happen to see your father, send him home right away." 

"Yes, Mama," the twins say in unison, and then head out the door. 

I close my eyes and grit my teeth as Mother works the arrows out of my shoulder. When she's done, she gives me another potion to help heal the wounds. I'm still a little light-headed, but I'm starting to feel a bit better, although very tired now. 

The door swings open again, and Father steps inside. "So, it _was_ you after all? I might have guessed that if there was a forest fire going on, you were probably behind it." 

"Sorry, Father," I mutter. "It was me." 

"Well, I stumbled upon it and got the fire out, stopped it from spreading too much," Father says, coming over to run some healing magic through me. "I told you not to go looking for them." 

"I didn't," I say. "I wasn't looking for them. By the time I knew they were there, it was too late to avoid a fight." 

"Was Allison with them?" Father asks. 

I give a nod. "I got her out of there safely." 

"Did anyone see you use magic? Anyone who survived that is?" 

"Allison did," I murmur. "But she was grateful at being rescued and promised not to tell anyone." 

"I suppose we'll have to trust that she'll keep her word, then," Father says. 

"Well, you can go to the Chantry and get your reward _tomorrow_ ," Mother says insistently. "Right now, let's get you cleaned up and off to bed for some much needed rest." 

Mother proceeds to get the blood washed off of me, and changed out of my dirty clothes and into ones for sleeping. As Mother takes them off to get the blood cleaned out of them, Father takes me up to my room to get me into bed and tuck me in. I'm still feeling pretty weak, so I'm grateful for the assistance. 

"Does your mother realize you were using blood magic?" Father whispers to me as he's putting me into bed. 

I look at him in surprise and shake my head. "How did you know?" 

"An educated guess. I can understand that you resorted to that. I don't know that you could have taken out the entire camp of bandits by yourself otherwise. Just be careful, alright? Promise me that you'll be careful. Please." 

"I'm always careful," I murmur. 

"I'm serious. Just because things turned out well enough this time, doesn't mean that they always will. You turned to blood magic in desperation, and I can understand that. But don't ever turn to demons, no matter how desperate you are. Better to die than to become possessed. You don't want to be an abomination." 

A little late for that by this point. "I'll be careful, Father. Don't worry about me." 

Father lets out a bit of a sigh. "Alright, my dear. I know you're stronger than that. You'd never let any demon trick you, I'm sure. I'd best leave you to rest, or your mother will give me an earful." 

He leaves me alone in the dark and shuts the door behind me, and I can only feel a little relieved that he's gone. I let my eyes slide shut, wondering if I'm going to start having those nightmares again. And that's when I realize that I've just killed a lot of people -- I'm not even entirely certain exactly how many -- and I don't feel the least bit bad about it. There's no guilt. They deserved to die. 

I'm completely justified in bringing a reckoning down upon those men. I protected my brother, and I saved Allison. Why should I feel bad about that? Why should I have to feel guilty about killing them? Even if I did wind up using blood magic and giving full reign to the wishes of the demon who was already possessing me to begin with. 

This is something I can do. I can kill in the name of justice. And there are probably a lot of people in this world who deserve justice.


	6. The Price of Blood

The next morning, I'm feeling much better, no doubt due to all the potions and healing magic. I'm still definitely a bit weak and tired, though. I don't want to be doing anything too strenuous. 

"There's my darling child," Mother says as I come down late to breakfast. The others are already finishing up. "Here, let me get you something to eat." 

Mother dishes me out a bowl of hot porridge, and I gratefully take it and eat. Carver gives me a conspiratorial look, the faint flicker of a grin of a shared secret. It's a good thing that if anyone notices his behavior, me being an abomination would be pretty far down the list of reasons for it. 

After I eat, I grab my staff and head outside. I make my way down into the village. My left arm is still a little sore, especially around the shoulder, but at least the wounds have been healed up for the most part. 

I come up toward the Chantry, the largest building in the village. Outside the Chantry grounds, there's a notice board where people have posted jobs that need to be done. A man dressed in Chantry garb stands beside it, reciting verses from the Chant of Light toward passersby. 

"Good day, Chanter Devons," I tell him. 

"And Eileen spoke unto the masses, 'My hearth is yours, my bread is yours, my life is yours. For all who walk in the sight of the Maker are one.'" 

It's always difficult to talk to Chanters. I get straight to the point. "Yesterday I rescued Allison from some bandits." 

"Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter," Chanter Devons says, nodding his head toward me. "Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just." 

He counts out a few sovereigns for the task and passes them over to me. I assume that Allison or someone has already told him that I'm the one who deserves payment for this. I look at the golden coins in my hand for a moment before dropping them into my pouch. 

"I don't suppose you have some advice for me, Chanter Devons," I say. 

"'Speak only the Word; sing only the Chant. Then the Golden City is thine," spoke Andraste," replies the Chanter. 

"Yes, of course," I say, smirking faintly. "I'm afraid I don't know the Chant of Light very well, myself. Maybe there's some answers there for me. I don't know." 

"Many are those who wander in sin, despairing that they are lost forever." 

"I... killed a few bandits in order to free Allison," I say quietly, looking at the ground. "But I don't feel bad about it. Shouldn't I feel guilty for-- for killing people? Even if it was to help someone? I'm so confused." 

"Those who oppose thee shall know the wrath of heaven. Field and forest shall burn..." 

My eyes widen as I look at him in horror. Does he know my secret? What did Allison tell him? But no, he's a Chanter. He won't tell anyone. He can't. I should be more worried if Allison told anyone the details of what really happened out there. 

"I'm sorry," I whisper, casting my gaze downward again and blinking away sudden tears from my eyes. 

"The one who repents, who has faith, unshaken by the darkness of the world, she shall know true peace," Chanter Devons replies. 

I sigh heavily. "I don't know that there's any peace for me, ever. But if I can help anyone, save anyone, then it will have all been worth it." 

"Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood the Maker's will is written." 

"I'm not always so sure about the Maker, but if I can be righteous, a light in the shadow, then I will, even if my own blood needs to be spilled." 

Chanter Devons looks to me for a long moment, and then says, "Let the blade pass through the flesh. Let my blood touch the ground. Let my cries touch their hearts. Let mine be the last sacrifice." 

I let out a heavy sigh, and nod to him. "Thank you, Chanter Devons." 

Was he just comparing me to Andraste? I'm not sure if he was trying to discourage me or encourage me. The problem with speaking only in the Chant. It's all open to interpretation. 

Still, as I walk away from the Chantry, I believe I'd prefer to think of myself as that sacrifice than Andraste. I'd rather put my life on the line myself in order to help others, rather than have faith in some woman whom I'm not even sure whether or not she actually existed. 

Also, I really doubt that Andraste ever suggested that anyone actually speak only in the Chant of Light. That's pretty absurd. 

As I head through the village, I catch a glimse of Allison. She freezes when she sees me, and stares at me for a moment like a fox caught raiding the chicken coop. Then, she turns and flees from the sight of me, her feet clapping against the packed dirt ground as she runs away. 

Poor, traumatized girl. But at least I got her home again unharmed. What else could have been asked of me? She would have been terrified even if I hadn't used blood magic in front of her like that, under the circumstances. That probably just made it worse. I don't think I could have won without blood magic, however, not against all of those bandits at once. So I really just did what I had to do. 

When I get home again, Father takes me aside. "There you are. I wasn't going to bring this up yesterday, since you were tired and wounded, but I see no need to put this off." 

"What is it, Father?" 

"If you're going to be a blood mage, I'm going to have to make sure that you know how to use it as safely as you can. I don't really like the idea, but I don't want to see you getting hurt because you didn't really know what you were doing." 

"I wasn't really planning on using blood magic back there..." 

"Planned or not, it still happened," Father says. "And you still could have been killed or worse while doing it." 

"A bandit cut my arm--" 

"You could have been killed!" Father roars, then continues more quietly. "Do you think I want to lose my eldest to recklessness?" 

"I'm sorry, Father," I murmur. 

Father sighs, and puts an arm around my shoulders. "You know I never wanted to have to do this. But you are a strong child. If anyone can handle this sort of magic without falling into corruption, you can. Let me teach you the right way to do things." 

"Yes, Father." 

"If you must use this sort of magic, use it as a last resort, when nothing else will get the job done. Whether it's because you don't have enough power to accomplish the task otherwise, or because it's something that regular magic simply can't do." 

I settle in to listen to his lessons attentively. I take in his words seriously, and don't feel the least amount of eagerness in his teachings. I didn't really _want_ to learn this. But I make no further protest. It's a tool to use like any other, a secret weapon for my magical arsenal, and one that I can control better than the demonic powers within me. 

"I'm glad that you're not drooling over the possibility of learning these things," Father says to me eventually. "I'd expected you to beg me to teach you a year or two ago when you first expressed an interest in it." 

"I was curious, not interested. I wanted to understand it, not actually learn it." 

"It's that very reason that I can feel confident in teaching you this. You aren't one to go mad with power and turn it to ill ends." 

I look at him curiously. "How is it that you know blood magic, Father?" 

"I've learned much about magic over the years, throughout my travels," Father replies. "It can often be prudent to gain what knowledge you can, even if you do not wind up actually using it. I've used it, sparingly, when necessary. And no more than that." 

"Are we to keep these lessons a secret from the rest of the family?" 

Father shakes his head. "Certainly not. I will not keep secrets from my own family. There are times when I might not volunteer information, but I will not outright lie or skulk about like a thief in my own home." 

I nod, and mutter, "Mother's not going to like this." 

"I know. I'll deal with her. Don't worry about it, alright?" 

"Alright." 

That evening, I overhear my parents speaking to one another in the kitchen. I miss the first part of the conversation, but when they speak up more clearly, it becomes pretty obvious what they must be talking about. 

"Oh, Malcolm. Are you sure it's a good idea to teach her about this awful sort of magic?" 

"I think he can handle this sort of responsibility." 

"How can you keep calling her 'he', even in private?" Mother says. "She's Susan, our daughter, our precious little girl!" 

I tense up involuntarily at her words. I wish she would not call me that. Doesn't she realize what it does to me? What it means to me? No, clearly not. She doesn't do it intentionally. She doesn't realize. She doesn't understand. I should not get angry at her for that. 

"He's Hawke, our son, for so long as he wishes to be. And as he's clearly trying to be a good person and help people in any way he can, I will support him in any way he chooses to do that in." 

"Surely you can't think that her running off to fight bandits is a good thing! She was hurt! Bleeding! She could have been killed!" 

"I know," Father says. "Don't think I don't know that. And that's exactly why I'm teaching whatever I can. Even blood magic. I don't like it. You know I don't like it. But if he's going to use that power anyway, I want to make sure he does it safely." 

"I hope you know what you're doing, Malcolm." 

"Don't worry, Leandra. I'll keep our precious child safe in any way I can." 

* * *

I'm seventeen years old now, and sitting in the Lothering tavern, Dane's Refuge, nursing a drink. It's comfortable, a good place to relax away from my family for a bit. And to hear about what's happening around the world, which is the real reason I'm here. 

"King Maric, dead at sea, Maker bless him," the barkeep, Danal says while wiping a mug absently. "His son, Cailan, is our king now." 

"Long live the king, whatever good it does us out here," mutters Frank in a half-drunk slur. 

"You shut your mouth," Danal snaps. "Cailan will be a good king, I'm sure. And he supports the Grey Wardens." 

"What good do Grey Wardens do us?" Frank replies. "There's no darkspawn around anymore." 

"You'll be eating those words, come the next Blight." 

"Like that'll happen. The darkspawn are gone forever, and the Grey Wardens are just trouble. Orlesian trouble, the worst kind." 

Danal snorts at him and rolls his eyes. "If the Grey Wardens come to town, I hope they conscript you, Frank. I hear they're looking for recruits. And I know you can swing a sword at least half a good as you drink." 

Frank looks like he's going to be sick. "Told you. Nothing but trouble." 

"You think they'd take _me_?" I put in. 

Danal looks me over appraisingly. "They might. They just might. If you're looking to be a hero, that's certainly one way to go about it." 

"You don't want to be a Grey Warden, kid," Frank tells me. "They harbor all sorts of unpleasant sorts. Thieves, murderers, apostates, even blood mages!" 

My eyes widen in surprise at his words, although not from horror like he probably thinks. "They're allowed to use blood magic?" 

"Openly, even!" Frank says. "Disgusting, isn't it? And nobody can say anything about it so long as they use it against darkspawn. And you better believe that they don't just use it against darkspawn. Do you know why they were exiled from Ferelden in the first place? It wasn't just for no reason, and then King Maric goes and lets them come back in!" 

"You can speculate all you like about what exactly happened that led up to that civil war," Danal says. "But it was two centuries ago and many records of that time have been since lost." 

"I don't need to know what they did two centuries ago. What they do now is bad enough. Stay clear of them, Hawke. Stay clear. They're bad news. Nothing but bad news." 

"Drink your beer, Frank," Danal grunts. 

I drain my own mug and head on out of the tavern, and confidently walk through the streets of Lothering. I have to wonder if the Grey Wardens would take even an abomination such as me. I'd probably still have to hide that part. But at least I wouldn't be hunted for being an apostate, or even a blood mage. That's definitely worth consideration. 

As I walk, I overhear some girls tittering nearby. "There goes Hawke. He's so strong and handsome." 

"You know he's actually a woman, don't you, Peaches?" 

"I don't care, Tamra. Just let me look, alright?" 

"Why not look at Carver instead?" Tamra wonders. 

"He's still a kid!" Peaches protests. "Hawke's grown up to be quite the hunk." 

"Women aren't even supposed to have muscles like that." 

I find that it doesn't bother me anymore that this secret seems to have slowly leaked out. It was inevitable, really, I suppose. I don't even bother binding my small breasts to remove even that slight hint. Strangers think I'm a boy, and the locals don't seem to care, if they noticed at all. 

I return home. The scent of elfroot is heavy in the air, and Father is pouring red liquid neatly into vials, finishing up another batch of healing potions. The house always smells a bit of elfroot, even when he's not actively brewing. 

"Ah, there you are," Father says. "Could you help me get these boxed up?" 

"Yes, Father," I say, taking the potions and carefully arranging them in neat rows in one of the wooden boxes. "I've been thinking, Father." 

"Have you, now? What about?" 

"I hear the Grey Wardens are recruiting. And that they'll even take apostates and blood mages. Maybe I should try and join them. It's been four hundred years since the last Blight. What are the chances of actually having to fight darkspawn?" 

Father's face immediately falls and he freezes for a moment halfway through reaching for another vial. "Hawke... If your aspiration in life is to be a Grey Warden, then I will support you however I can. But I must warn you against it, and you must be aware of certain things about the Grey Wardens before you even think about setting foot on that path." 

"What do you mean?" I wonder. 

Father sighs and puts a hand on my shoulder. "The Grey Wardens have secrets, Hawke. Terrible secrets that they don't want anyone else to find out about, oftentimes even including their own people." 

"Well, that's not too surprising, I suppose. I would imagine that every organization probably has its dirty secrets..." 

Father smirks. "You've become quite cynical, my dear, but you don't know the half of it. The Grey Wardens often resort to questionable means in order to accomplish their goals." 

"Like blood magic?" 

"And worse. And even regardless of that, they pay a heavy price for their powers against darkspawn. Their lives are often short and brutal. I would not wish to see you come to that end." 

I frown. "I get the feeling that there's some things you aren't telling me. Do you have some personal experience with the Grey Wardens?" 

Father gives a small nod. "I'd rather not speak of it, but if you insist upon this course, then I will tell you everything." 

I shake my head. "No. I trust you, Father. If you think this is a bad idea, then I will take your word on it. I won't try to join the Grey Wardens." 

Father looks immensely relieved, slumping his shoulders for a moment before hugging me tightly. "I'm glad to hear that. I would hate to lose any of my children to people like them." 

Whatever it was must have been something pretty bad if Father doesn't want to talk about it. I won't press him on it, though. It doesn't really matter now. The telling part is that Father is even more disapproving of being a Grey Warden than of being a blood mage. What does that say about them and where that path might lead? 

"Thank you for warning me, Father. Let's get these potions packed." 

I'd be a terrible child if I never listened to my father. He's warned me about plenty of things and I've pushed forward anyway. I think I'd rather not find out what terrible events he must have gone through with the Grey Wardens. 

"Did you hear that King Maric is dead?" I ask, smoothly changing the subject. I don't intend to bring up Grey Wardens around my father ever again. 

"Lost at sea, I heard. I hope Cailan makes for a good king, but he's awfully young still. Only twenty, after all. Not much older than you." 

"I'm certainly not going to be a king, though," I say, chuckling. "I'll be happy if I can just do some good in the world." 

"Hold fast to your dreams, my child, and never let anyone take them away from you." He puts the top on the box and secures it. "Could you take these down to Elder Miriam for me?" 

"Yes, Father." I carefully pick up the box of potions and head out of the house again. 

I make my way over to the village, down across the bridge, and to the elder's place. I carefully shift the position of the box in my arms so that I don't drop it, and knock on the door. 

An aged woman opens the door, and says, "Ah, there you are. You've got those potions I ordered? Excellent. Maker bless you, child. Come and set that box down on the table over here. It looks heavy." 

I come in and put the box down, and Elder Miriam counts out some coins and passes them over to me. "Thank you. I'll be sure to get this back to my father." 

"You and your father are an asset to this community, child," Elder Miriam says. "I don't know what we'd do without such skilled herbalists. The Maker was surely smiling upon us the day your family chose to make this their home." 

On the way back home, I hear a small coughing sound off to the side. I go and look over, curious. There's a family of elves walking through the village, a man and a woman carrying a small child, perhaps a year or so old at most. 

"Shh now, little one," murmurs the elven mother. "It'll be alright. Your father and I are trying to put together some coins to buy you some healing." 

I frown a little, approaching them. "Is something wrong with your baby?" 

"Nothing you can help with, shemlen," growls the man. 

"What's a shemlen?" I wonder, vaguely feeling as though I was just insulted in some way. 

"A _human_ ," the elf replies, practically spitting the word out. "What does a shemlen like you care about the plight of elves?" 

"I care about _people_ ," I reply, biting back a sudden rush of anger. "What does it matter what race they are?" 

"It matters a great deal to you shems, it seems," the elven man says, glaring at me. "No one will help us! Our baby girl is sick, and they want us to pay more coins than we can afford for a cure for her." 

For the first time, I see the problem with selling healing potions. It's a business, for a profit. It's not a charity. It provides help to those who can afford it, and those who are generous enough to buy them for others who cannot. But ultimately, it boils down to money. We turn weeds into money, at the expense of the sick. 

I glance around on the open street. Not here. "Show me to your home, please," I say quietly. "And I'll take a look at her and see what I can do." 

"What, you expect me to believe that a shem like you will help us?" the man says. 

"Lathan, please..." the woman says. "It couldn't hurt, at this point." 

Lathan sighs. "Fine. Come along, shem. But you make one wrong move, you lift a hand against my wife or my little girl, and you will regret it, you hear me?" 

I grit my teeth and clench my fists for a moment, and say, "I will not harm your little girl. I swear it." 

Lathan leads the way to a small hovel at the edge of the village. It's little more than a ramshackle building of wooden planks thrown together, and it looks as though it might collapse at any moment. The mother puts the baby down in a cradle that nevertheless looks to have been lovingly crafted, and steps away, wringing her hands anxiously. 

"Alright, shem. Let's see what you can do," Lathan says, still watching me suspiciously. 

I examine the baby closely, quietly sending a thread of magic through her in order to identify the problem. This is quite serious. She'll probably die without treatment, and soon. And I doubt that any potions that these elves could afford anytime soon would be sufficient to cure her. I can cure it, though. I might need to use a little blood magic for it, but I can cure this. 

"I can save her," I say quietly. "Just, promise me you won't tell anyone about me, alright?" 

"Tell anyone what?" Lathan wonders. 

I pull my staff out from across my back, and channel forth healing magic, and work it through the tiny body before me. She's so sick, sicker than any amateur would think her to be at a glance. My power alone isn't enough. The illness has worked its way deep into the blood and lungs. Blood magic it'll have to be, then. I pull out a knife from my belt and carefully prick my finger, just a little. 

Using any sort of magic is always a bit of a rush, but blood magic is a hundred times worse. After using blood magic for years, normal magic seems like nothing anymore. But I don't really mind. It's a tool, a weapon when necessary, not a drug to get addicted to like an idiot. 

And now, I use that tool to purge the illness from a baby's body, working carefully so as not to hurt the delicate little one any further. Then, a few moments later, it's done. I let out a heavy breath and lean hard against my staff. It took a lot out of me, but this little girl is safe and healthy again. 

"You..." Lathan says. When I turn around, I see that he's staring wide-eyed at me in terror. "You're an apostate. A hedge mage. A blood mage!" 

"And seeing as I just saved your little girl's life, I'd appreciate if you would keep that quiet, hmm?" 

"And what's your price?" Lathan wonders, narrowing his eyes at me. "Shemlens never do anything out of the kindness of their hearts. Especially not blood mages!" 

"I can't put a price on a life," I say. 

"So, what, you'd expect our lives for it instead? You'd enslave us as surely as the Tevinters of old did?" 

"Of course not!" I snap. My heart races and my blood begins to heat up. "Can't you believe that I'd help you just because I wanted to help, and didn't want to see your little girl die?" 

"Why should a shem care for elves like us?" Lathan replies. "No. I don't believe it. You have some agenda. This is all some scheme. I don't know what it is, but you want something from us, or you did something to my baby. That's it, isn't it? You used blood magic to enslave her, and she'll grow up kissing the ground you walk on!" 

"How dare you accuse me of such a thing?" I roar. "I helped your daughter because I don't like to see little girls get hurt and suffer. And you think I have some sinister motive for it?" 

The elven woman shrieks and cowers in terror in the corner of the room. Lathan shrinks away and his eyes widen at me. "Maker preserve us..." 

Fade, I'm glowing again. I try to get control of myself. They don't need to see this. They _must not_ see this. And they do not deserve my wrath. They're unjustly suspicious of me, but they have done no wrong. 

"My apologies," I say, although my voice is still deeper than it should be. "But if you continue to question my motivations and speak to me in such a way, then I cannot guarantee your safety." 

"Threatening us now?" Lathan says. "Get-- Get out of our house! Now! And if I suspect _anything_ wrong with my child, I will tell the templars about you!" 

I don't trust myself to remain any longer, but I can't go out on the streets looking like this. I focus for a few moments, trying to calm myself. Hawke is really a combination of Susan and Ayande. That's the only reason I've managed what semblance of control that I have. I'm as much Ayande as I am myself. I'm not even entirely certain where I end and Ayande begins anymore. 

"Have I stopped glowing yet?" I ask wryly. 

Lathan glares at me, and say, "Yes. Now go!" 

I give a terse nod, and head out. That could have gone better. That could have gone much better. I just hope, for once in my life, that they're too terrified to actually report me to the templars.


	7. Malcolm's Honor

The Imperial Highway is broken and crumbling in places, but there's still enough of it intact to point travelers in the direction they mean to go without getting too lost along the way. As the evening grows late, the flickering flames of our campfire cast light and warmth upon our small camp, as well as bringing the cookpot to a slow simmer. 

"Are you glad to be out of Lothering for a while, Father?" I ask. 

"A bit," Father replies. "I miss Leandra and the twins, though. But Redcliffe isn't a long journey, and they're offering a lot of money for these potions." 

"How long until we arrive?" 

"Tomorrow, by afternoon at the latest. We can stay the night there and head back the day after." 

I lay back and stare up at the sky. Pinpricks of stars are starting to come out as sky darkens and the day slips away into night. A breeze whips through from the south, still bearing the brisk chill of winter even though it's well into spring now. 

"The young Hawke is getting ready to fly the nest," Father comments, his voice touched with a wistful tone. "Where will it fly, free on the wind, I wonder?" He chuckles softly. "My little girl is almost all grown up." 

I tense involuntarily at his words. "I still don't like being called that," I mutter. 

"Ah, relax. It's alright. You'll never be a little girl again, and yet, you'll always be my little girl." 

I sit up, clenching my hands around my knees and gazing into the fire. _Little girl, little girl, little girl_. It's not a pleasant thought, to always be a little girl. To forever be small and helpless, nothing but a victim. 

"My apologies," Father says. "I didn't mean to upset you." 

I shake my head. "No, it's my own problem, not yours." 

"You never did get over what happened back in South Reach, did you," Father says gently. 

I sigh heavily. "No. I did not." I took with me a passenger that never left, but I can't tell him that. He must never find out. Never. 

"It's been seven years. Do you want to talk about it yet?" 

"Not really, no," I say. "But I'll talk if you want me to." 

"Perhaps talking would be best. What actually happened that day? Did they..." 

"They didn't actually rape me, if that's what you're getting at," I say. "I wasn't about to let them go that far before defending myself. Once it became clear what their intentions were and that they would not be dissuaded otherwise, I showed them no mercy." 

They deserved to die. And I enjoyed killing them. Just as I've enjoyed killing every bandit that thought to cross my path, as well. I take out my rage on those I can get away with killing. I can feel guilty about the fact that I take pleasure in it, but I can't feel guilty about causing their deaths. 

Father is watching me closely, with a critical eye. "How many people have you killed? You're only nineteen. I know you killed four people when you were twelve, and then you wiped out that camp of bandits when you were fourteen. How many others have you slain over the years?" 

I think for a moment, and then shake my head. "I don't know. I've lost track. But be assured that they all deserved it." 

"Can you be certain of that?" 

"Can anyone ever be certain of anything?" I retort. 

Maybe they didn't all deserve it, to be sure. Some of them were begging for mercy, but my mind was beyond giving them any. I killed them to feed my rage, to quench the flames of Ayande's fury in blood. 

"I worry about you, you know," Father says. "I didn't mean to raise a killer." 

"You raised what you raised. I am what I am. If you have a problem with that, it's a little late to take it back now, nineteen years later." 

"I've tried to teach you to let your magic serve that which is best in you, not that which is most base. And yet I fear at times that you've lost sight of that. Are you certain that you are still doing that?" 

I clench my fists and grate my teeth. How dare he judge me like that. Is this really the man that's been so supportive of me over the years? A fine time to change his mind now! 

"Of course I'm certain," I snap. "I've never strayed from that path!" 

"You have a terrible temper. You grow angry very easily. How many times have you lost control of your anger, and someone who didn't deserve your wrath got burned in the process?" 

"Never!" I growl. "I am in control!" 

"You don't seem very in control now," Father points out. 

I stare at him, and take a deep breath trying desperately to calm myself. It's a good thing I've become so used to living with Ayande. In the early years, the slightest bit of anger was enough to get me glowing. And I can't afford that now. If he finds out... 

"I am in control," I grate through clenched teeth. 

"You need to be careful. You don't want to be easy prey for rage demons. If you're too angry, can you be certain that you will be able to refuse the bargains they whisper in your ears? If you agree, even for a moment, you will be lost to them forever." 

I have to laugh bitterly at that. So I might be lost forever, but I'm not certain that I care anymore. I can't bemoan my status all my life. 

"It's not a joke. I'm deadly serious, child." 

"Sometimes the most serious things are the funniest," I reply wryly. "When you have to laugh, otherwise you'd just break down in tears." 

"I don't understand," Father murmurs. 

And he never will. Never should. Never must. I have to laugh, or I'd break under the strain of rage wanting to burst forth. 

The rage at the idea of being _forever a little girl_. 

Father's eyes widen as he stares at me. "You..." 

"What?" I ask, almost growling. I can hardly look at him at the moment without remembering what he said. The rage is difficult to keep down. 

"No, I'm not imagining things," Father mutters. 

Are my eyes glowing? Andraste's flaming ashes, my eyes are glowing, aren't they. 

Father stands, grabbing his staff and taking up a defensive posture across from me. "I knew something wasn't right about you for some time. How long has it been, demon? How long since you stole my daughter from me?" 

"Father..." I rasp. 

"I am no father to you, monster!" 

My body shaking a little, I take my own staff in hand and rise to my feet to face him. The secret is out. Maker help me, the secret is out. There's no use trying to hide it any longer. Molten veins crisscross my skin. 

"Seven years," I reply. "Since South Reach." 

"You took advantage of my daughter's plight to take her over, did you, demon?" 

"I _am_ your daughter!" I growl. "I chose this! It was a mistake, sure, it was a mistake, a moment of weakness, like you always warned me about, but I did choose this, willingly!" 

"So, is there something of my daughter still left in there?" Father says. "Or is this merely another trick? I won't listen to any of your lies, foul creature. To the Fade with you!" 

A fist of force strikes me and knocks me back. I tumble to the ground, roll over, and clamber back to my feet. "Father!" 

"If there is anything of my beloved daughter still in there, then I apologize. I'm sorry that this happened to you, and that I could not save you sooner. I'm going to end this now. You won't have to suffer any longer." 

Tears burn my eyes like streams of acid. A red haze clouds my vision. "I would rather die than harm you, Father," I say thickly. "But the demon will not allow it. I'm sorry. I must fight." Flames run up and down my body. 

"It's alright, my precious little bird," Father says to me sadly. "It'll all be over soon." 

Must fight. Must fight. Must kill. Must... kill... him... 

I don't want to watch this. I don't want to see this. Why must I remain fully aware of every move my body is making? Dodging spells, returning counterspells, raining fire down upon my enemy. My _father_. 

If Ayande took complete control of my body and left me blanking out, it would have been a mercy. But it's not like that. It's never been like that. And she never completely controls me, not even now. Even now, even letting my rage hold reign, I'm still fighting willingly and deliberately. 

I fight to defend myself. I fight for the sake of living. I'm sorry, Father. If this is the way it has to be, then so be it. 

_So be it_. 

He's too powerful to defeat on my own, even with Ayande's help. If I want to live, I'm going to have to resort to blood magic. I whip out my knife and draw it across my left palm in one smooth motion. 

"You turn everything I've taught my daughter against me, demon," Father shouts. "But no more! I will not allow you to control her any longer!" 

A storm of fire and blood swirls around me. I don't have to hold anything back. There's no one here that I'm trying to protect. I can let everything loose, no matter how much destruction it causes. 

Spells rip at me as well, some of them wounding me pretty badly, but I barely notice right now. If they bleed at all, it only adds to my blood magic. But by the time my opponent drops, I think I'm on the brink of death myself. 

Father lays on the ground, still breathing, but barely. His staff lays discarded several feet away, well out of reach. I go over to his side, feeling the rage bleed out of me, to be replaced only by pain and exhaustion. 

"Susan..." Father rasps. "My beloved daughter... I'm sorry that I could not end your suffering." 

"I want to live, Father," I say, my hands weak and trembling as I reach down to touch him. "I'm sorry that I had to defend myself." 

"I've failed you, little bird. I've failed you..." 

I reach over to the boxes of healing potions that we were hauling to Redcliffe. They're smashed and burned, shattered glass and precious life-giving liquid spilled out across the forest floor. Some of them in the bottom box are still intact, however. I pull out one and quickly pull out the stopper and guzzle down the potion. I let out a soft sigh as the magical fluid starts to revive me and replenish the blood lost to my magic. 

I offer a potion to my father. "Here. Drink this." 

Father shakes his head and looks away. "I don't know why you wish to keep me alive, demon, but I will not be a party to your whims. I will not be your plaything." 

"Father... Flames, it's _me_. It's your daughter! Your eldest!" 

"Susan..." Father murmurs, shaking his head again. "No. I don't want to allow hope to believe that you're really in there, never mind in control." 

"I am. I really am, Father." 

"It's a trick. Surely it is. But no matter. Susan, if some part of you is really still there, still listening, know this. If I somehow survive this day, whether by chance or demon's whim, I will try again. I will keep trying until I succeed, or I am dead. I will fight until one of us kills the other. There can be no other way." 

"Father..." I choke out, sobbing. 

_There can be no other way_. 

I refuse to believe that. I can't believe that everything must end in fire and blood. I won't believe that. I lean over and put my head on my dying father's chest, tears running freely from my eyes. 

Father moves a little, and whispers, "Susan. I love you." I think he's trying to embrace me. But then I feel a prick of pain against my neck, and jump back in surprise. There's a knife in his hand. He was trying to cut my throat. Still trying to kill me even now. 

Blood trickles down my neck, but at least he didn't manage to stick anything vital. I growl low in rage and call forth my magic again, engulfing my opponent in a column of flame. An execution for my enemy, and a funeral pyre for my father. 

Maker, what have I done? I stare at the flames roaring before me, the ashes swirling up into the air. My eyes sting and my vision is blurry, but there are no tears any longer. They've all burned away in this pyroclastic destruction. 

I feel like I've lost everything in this moment. My hopes and dreams for the future, any thought of free will on my part, and most importantly, my beloved father. If I could not stop myself from killing him, who else might I wind up killing? I'm a danger to my family and everyone else around me. 

I'm still bleeding. I reflexively drink down the potion I'd been trying to get my father to drink, right before I killed him. I should have been the one to die today. I should have let him kill me. He was a good man. A better man than I could ever hope to be, especially while possessed! And I killed him. I just murdered my own father. 

The ashes falling around me might as well be my entire world. 

I huddle up in a daze as my world burns around me. I'd happily give myself over to the pyre as well. But there's a demon in my mind with more sense of self-preservation than me. Ayande prods me into moving. I can't stay here. 

I drink down every sip of healing potion that remains, and then go over to my father's fallen staff. It's a deceptively simple wooden staff, with a carving of Andraste on the top end of it. Still, I know it's no ordinary piece of wood, and I can feel the gentle hum of magic flowing within it, responding to my touch. 

After gathering up anything else that can still be salvaged from the camp, I step back onto the road, moving like the walking dead. Even if I thought I would have any hope of sleeping after that, I want to put some distance between me and the place. 

I should have recited something from the Chant of Light over my father's pyre. But I can't remember the words that ought to be spoken. No words come to my mind. Nothing gives comfort to my turmoiled thoughts. There is no balm for my burning soul, no potion to quench the fires of my heart. 

The first rays of dawn are starting to light the sky behind me as I'm finally approaching the village of Redcliffe. I'm drained and exhausted to the point where I have to wonder just what's keeping me going. 

A templar at the edge of the village sees me and comes up toward me. "My lady, you look hurt! What happened? Was there trouble on the road?" 

He could tell that I'm a woman? I glance down and notice the state my clothing is in. It's a wonder that it covers as much as it does. I can't bring myself to care at the moment. I'm far too tired. 

"I was attacked," I say wearily. "It was... an apostate. I killed him. But my father is dead." 

All true, just not in the way that I imply. I'm not in any state to spin some story, so I just go with the closest thing to the truth I can manage. 

"An apostate on the road? How horrible! I must sincerely apologize, my lady, for it seems that I and my fellows have failed in our duty to keep Ferelden safe from rogue mages." 

"We were carrying potions here from Lothering," I explain. "I'm afraid the shipment was lost. The only ones that weren't destroyed, I used to save myself." 

"Have you been traveling all night? Come on, let's get you cleaned up and rested." 

I'm far too tired to argue with him as he leads me off to the Chantry. I hardly notice the sister who tends to me, helps me get cleaned and changed into fresh clothes. I'm taken to bed, but I think I'm asleep before I even hit the pillow. 

* * *

I can't get my father's face out of my mind. Uttering fateful words to me, surrounded in flames, reduced to ashes. I wake with a start, gasping in a cold sweat. 

I'm in an unfamiliar place, and sunlight streams in through a window above me. I'm dressed in light smallclothes. My own clothes are stacked off to the side, along with my father's staff. I reach over to go to put them on. Someone has cleaned the blood out of them, but they're torn and tattered. Still, it's not as bad as I'd feared, and I don't have anything better to wear at the moment, so I put them on anyway on top of what I'm already wearing. 

I rub my eyes and stumble out of the room. It looks like I'm in the Redcliffe Chantry, and it's late afternoon. The Revered Mother must be around here somewhere. After quietly asking one of the sisters, I'm pointed in the direction of a room off to the side. 

"Ah, you're awake, my child. I'm Mother Hannah." 

"I'm Hawke," I say, voice wavering. I'm numb, not sure why I came here. Perhaps I'm just hoping for some closure. There can certainly be no true comfort for me here. 

"Hawke. You were the one who was bringing us those healing potions, yes?" she asks me, to which I give a terse nod. "My condolences about your father. Would you like me to recite a verse from the Chant of Light to honor his passing for you?" 

"Yes, please," I murmur. 

"Many are those who wander in sin, despairing that they are lost forever..." Mother Hannah begins. 

I quietly kneel before her and listen to her words for whatever small comfort they might bring to me. I might not be the most devout of Andrasteans, but the Chant is rather pretty, I suppose. 

"But the one who repents, who has faith, unshaken by the darkness of the world, and boasts not, nor gloats over the misfortunes of the weak, but takes delight in the Maker's law and creations, she shall know the peace of the Maker's benediction. The Light shall lead her safely through the paths of this world, and into the next." 

Why is she saying "she" if this is supposed to be for my father? Oh, was this verse originally about Andraste or something? Still, it makes it sound like the Revered Mother is talking about Susan Hawke, rather than Malcolm. 

"For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water. As the moth sees light and goes toward flame, she should see fire and go towards Light. The Veil holds no uncertainty for her, and she will know no fear of death, for the Maker shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword." 

When Mother Hannah finishes, I whisper, "Thank you." I stand slowly, wiping away the tears that are running down my face. I don't understand what most of that was even supposed to mean, but it sounds good. 

"Is there anything else you require of me today, my child?" 

I look at the aged woman quietly for a moment before replying, "I was going to ask that of you. I can-- I can replace the shipment of potions that were lost." 

"Maker bless you, my child, still thinking only of others even with your own loss." 

"I just don't know that I can face my family just yet," I murmur. "And doing some work would help me to keep my mind from dwelling on what happened too much. I'd just need a cauldron and some vials..." 

"We can surely do something about your clothes in the meantime, though," Mother Hannah says. "We can get something else for you to wear while you're here, and have someone mend them for you for when you return home." 

"Alright. Thank you." 

Once I get changed and hand off my old clothes, I get something to eat, and then return to the room that was given for my use while I'm here. It's strange staying in a Chantry, especially in one of the cells set aside for laypeople. But I can't argue. I'm grateful to them for taking me in, under the circumstances. If they only had any idea just what kind of monster they're harboring within their walls. 

Come morning, I go and head out to the area around Redcliffe to see about collecting some elfroot. I hope I can find enough to replace the supplies that were lost. 

The potions that were smashed when I fought and killed my father. When I rained fire down upon the forest, indiscriminately destroying everything nearby. 

I had feared that it would come to this, years ago. But one can never really be prepared to have to fight one's own family. 

I hack at elfroot, viciously ripping it from the ground and stuffing it unceremoniously into my bag. I'm angry at my father for not listening to me. I'm angry at Ayande for forcing me into that situation. I'm angry at myself most of all. For not being able to control myself. For not being willing to just die to save my own father. For accepting Ayande's bargain in the first place. 

"Why couldn't I just _die_?" I growl, yanking another elfroot out of the earth. 

I'm glowing again, and I don't care. There's no one out here to see me. And if anyone does, I will just _kill them_. Just like I killed my father. Who could accept and support everything else about me, but not this. Not the one point that changed everything. 

"I should have been the one to die..." 

_You don't really believe that, though._

I wanted to live. I really did want to live, or I would not have been able to fight back as I did, even to the point of using blood magic when it was clear that normal magic would never be sufficient. 

I'm a monster. I'm a horrible person. I've done terrible things for the sake of my survival. For my own continued worthless, tormented existence. And I have no doubt that my father will not be the last person I kill who did not deserve to die. He probably wasn't the first, either. 

How can I find any sort of redemption, when this is what I'm left with? How can I have any hope of being a hero, of helping people? 

And yet I must seek redemption, nonetheless. I have to try. Somehow. I don't know how. But I must never lose sight of that distant light, or I am truly lost.


	8. Carver's Resentment

I return home, reluctant and my steps heavy. My clothes mended and my duty fulfilled, now all that's left is to face my family and tell them that father is no more. And never to breathe a word of the truth about it to anyone. 

"Oh, Maker, what happened?" Mother says as I step inside the house. "Where's your father?" Her eyes come to rest upon the staff in my hand, my father's staff. The twins look up to me wide-eyed. 

"He-- He's gone," I choke out. 

"Come in, sit down," Mother says. "Are you hurt?" 

I set the staff aside and slump down heavily into a chair. "No, I'm alright." I sigh. I've spent the last few days going over in my mind what I would tell my family, and now that I'm up to that point, I don't even want to tell them anymore. 

"What happened to Father?" Bethany asks, her voice small and trembling. 

"Yes, what happened?" Carver asks, almost accusingly. 

After a few moments of gathering myself, I say quietly, "There was trouble on the road. We-- There was another apostate. A blood mage. He-- We fought. He died. There was-- It was horrible." 

"Maker's breath," Mother murmurs. 

Carver looks at me with a quiet glare. I can't meet his gaze. I could hardly get the words out as it was. Lying to my own family like this. I know that Carver must suspect the truth. His eyes burn into me, peeling away the lies and uncovering the painful, bloody truth. But he says nothing. 

Bethany lets out a soft sob, and goes over to bury her face in Mother's shoulder. Mother reaches an arm around her and holds her close in a comforting embrace. 

I stare at the floor, and then after a long minute of awkward silence, I go up to my room. I can hardly bear to face them after this. I would rather be alone. Alone with my pain and guilt, as I have been for the past few days. 

I'd been planning on leaving home this year, next year at the latest. That's no longer possible now, though. With Father gone, now I need to stay and take care of my family. Bethany and Carver are only fifteen, not yet old enough to have to be supporting a family on their own. And Mother doesn't have Father's skills. I don't want to have to force any of them into finding work, especially when I was responsible for their situation. 

I'm not really hungry, and don't particularly feel like eating, but I come down for dinner that evening anyway. The meal is somber and quiet, and I can't shake the feeling that Carver is silently hating me. Maybe I'm just imagining things. Maybe it's just my own guilt laying heavily upon my heart. But he's the only one who knows the truth about me. The only one who could suspect the truth of what happened out on the road, and know to rightly blame me for it. 

"What are we going to do now?" Bethany wonders quietly, poking at a bit of food. She clearly isn't very hungry herself. 

"Now? We live," Mother says, her voice cracking a little. "We move on. Your father would not want us to fall apart, wallowing in grief forever." 

"I'll stay here," I say. "Father taught me almost everything he knows about making potions. I'll keep up the trade and bring in money to support us." 

"I'll see if there's any mercenary work available," Carver says. 

"Carver!" Mother says, casting him a horrified look. "You'll do nothing of the sort. You're fifteen! There's no need for you to be doing out and killing people at your age! You could get hurt!" 

"It would be a good source of coin," Carver says. "So we wouldn't have to rely entirely on potions in order to get by." 

"That trade has served us well up until now," Mother says. 

"And now Father is gone." 

I sigh softly, looking away. "I can handle it. I even replaced the shipment of potions to Redcliffe that was destroyed in the fight all by myself." 

"You're a blessing from the Maker, dear child," Mother says, smiling sadly at me. 

"Well, it still couldn't hurt to have more money," Carver says. 

"I forbid it, Carver. No more arguing about it. You can wait at least a few more years before plunging headlong into that sort of work." 

Carver sighs unhappily. "Yes, Mother." 

* * *

The next morning, I set out to gather elfroot in the woods on the east side of the village. Carver trails along behind me at Mother's insistence. He kicks at the ground, occasionally slashing at leaves with his sword, and rips at every elfroot he sees just as badly as I was doing a few days prior. 

"So, care to tell me what really happened?" he finally says to break his silence. 

I feared this was coming. "I don't want to talk about it." 

"Of course you don't," Carver says with a snort. "But _I_ want you to talk. I want some answers. And if you don't want to talk, I'm sure Mother and Bethany would be very interested to find out about you, and my suspicions on what really happened out there." 

I grit my teeth and restrain myself against a surge of rage. I don't need to be killing my brother so soon after unjustly slaying my own father. My heart aches at that thought. No, I will not kill Carver. I won't kill him, no matter what. Father was a powerful mage. Carver is barely more than a child and an amateur with a sword. He's no real threat to me. 

"Carver..." I murmur, leaning heavily on my staff. 

"Start talking, sister," Carver says, narrowing his eyes at me. 

I wince a little at his address. He's refusing all barriers, denying all lies. I should have realized on the way home that I would not be able to lie to him. That he would realize that the story I told Mother and Bethany was not entirely accurate. He's not stupid. 

"He found out," I say, sighing heavily and slumping against a nearby tree trunk. 

"He found out," Carver repeats, giving me a hard look. "And, what, you wanted to keep your secret so badly that you killed him for it?" 

"No!" I snap. "No, no, no, Maker no! If it were just about that, I would have gladly told him the very day that it happened in the first place." 

"Then what?" Carver says. "Talk to me, sister. If that's not what really happened, then _tell me_. What am I supposed to think?" 

I look down at my trembling hand, and put it firmly on my father's staff to steady myself. "He found out. And then he tried to kill me." 

"So, what, you're trying to tell me that this is all his fault, then?" Carver says. 

I shake my head. "I didn't say that he was necessarily _wrong_ for trying to kill me. But he did, and I was forced to try to defend myself." 

"So Father is dead now because you were _just defending yourself_?" Carver says, looking at me incredulously. 

"I defended myself with everything I had, and then some. And I wish I could have just died instead." 

"But the demon wouldn't let you." 

I look at the ground. "I'm not going to start blaming everything on Ayande. Whether it was entirely her fault or not, I refuse to make excuses and displace responsibility by claiming that I wasn't really in control. I _should_ have been." 

"So you did kill Father." 

"Yes," I admit. "I killed him because some part of me wanted to live, even if some part of me would rather have died." 

Carver looks at me dangerously, almost casually pointing his bare sword in my direction. "You know, if you really want to die, I'm sure that can be arranged." 

"Don't, Carver," I say, sighing. "I don't want to be forced to defend myself against you, too, anymore than I would want you to also become a kinslayer. You don't need to have the blood of a sibling on your hands, especially not at your age." 

"Why does it always come down to my age? You weren't too young to kill even when you were younger than me!" 

"And I would not have done so if I had had a choice in the matter. I'd really like to spare you some of what I went through, if at all possible." 

"Oh, so it's all for my sake, is it?" Carver says with a snort. 

"Carver... I'm not going to hurt you. No matter what. Alright? If you insist on attempting to finish the job that even Father could not accomplish, then I will leave. I will go away, disappear and never come back. You will never see me or have to deal with me again. Is that what you want?" 

Carver lowers his sword slowly. "I'm not going to forgive you for this, sister. But now you have an obligation to take care of Mother and Bethany, and I will hold you to that." 

I straighten and bow my head toward him. "Thank you, Carver." 

"Don't thank me," Carver says. "Don't think I'm doing this for your sake." As he goes over to harvest another elfroot, I hear him mutter, "Maybe the templars were right after all." 

I sigh again as I get back to work quietly. Carver and I had been so close before. He'd almost thought that the abomination thing was kind of neat at first. How quickly things change. Overnight, that brotherly friendship is gone, replaced by bitter, festering resentment. And I can't blame him for it in the least. This was all my fault, and I know it. 

* * *

I always liked the smell of elfroot. Such a soothing, refreshing scent. It's good to have the cauldron bubbling and filling the house with wafting fragrances, but it makes my heart ache as well. It reminds me of my father, and spending so many hours watching him stirring at the latest potion batch, helping him prepare herbs, talking with him over the appropriate amount of time to set the mixture to boil and how finely to chop the leaves. 

There's a terrible gap in my heart now that will never be filled again. If the story I'd told my family had been true, it would have still hurt, to be sure. I would have still keenly felt the loss of Father and longed for his missing presence. But it would not have been nearly so bad as knowing that I'm the one responsible for it. That I destroyed one of the people I care the most about in all the world with my own two hands. 

How can anyone else ever forgive me for that, especially when I know that I will never be able to forgive myself? All that's left for me is to try to atone for my sins, to seek redemption in any way that I can. An impossible task, in my eyes, but I have to try, nonetheless. 

"I'll help with that," Bethany offers, coming into the work area. 

Bethany isn't as skilled with it as I am yet, but she has picked up a thing or two about making potions. I hand Bethany the knife and let her get to work on chopping the herbs. 

"Was it nice out there today?" Bethany asks. 

"Beautiful," I say. "Although still entirely too chilly for my tastes. You really ought to come out with us sometime." 

"I'd rather not," Bethany says, shaking her head timidly. 

"There's nothing to worry about," I say. "You've become quite the powerful mage, Bethany. You can defend yourself if need be. And even if not, then Carver or I would." 

"Someone has to stay here and protect Mother, though," Bethany says. "Especially with Father gone, now..." 

I know better than that, though. I know that that's just an excuse. "Are you afraid that the templars will discover you?" 

"A little," Bethany admits. "It's not like I ever wanted to be a mage. I didn't ask for this curse. I'd give up my magic in a heartbeat, but being Tranquil just sounds so much worse." 

"It's not--" I begin, and then just sigh. There's no use in arguing with Bethany over whether magic is a curse or not. I never thought magic was a curse, myself. The only curse I have is the demon in my soul. But Bethany will never see it that way. 

"And it's not like I can just choose not to use it," Bethany says. "What if I need it to defend myself or someone I care about? I'll be the best mage that I can be, but I don't have to like it. Carver at least can choose to put down his sword if he wants to. You and I don't even have that option." 

"It's not so bad," I say quietly. 

"You were always far more dedicated to it than me," Bethany says. "I suppose you'll be taking over my training, now that Father... Father is..." 

I give a small nod. "I'll teach you anything I want to know, Bethany." 

"I don't want to learn blood magic," Bethany says quickly. "I don't understand why Father ever taught you horrible things like that. But it's not for me. I don't want anything to do with that sort of magic." 

I still think that blood magic is probably a bit unfairly stigmatized, but I just nod to her. I really don't have the heart to argue. That's her choice, after all. I'd teach her if she ever asked me, sure, but I'm not going to convince her that blood magic isn't always bad, or that being a mage isn't a curse. 

"Alright, Bethany, this batch is done. Come help me get it bottled up." 

* * *

Although Mother Hannah in Redcliffe had already spoken a stanza from the Chant of Light for my father's death, Mother makes certain that the Chantry in Lothering performs a funeral service for him three days after my return. There were no remains that could be recovered, having been burnt to ash and left on the side of the road, but the Revered Mother is more than happy to speak words of mourning for him. 

"I'm sorry about your father," Tamra says quietly to Bethany. 

"Yeah, me too," Peaches says half sincerely while making doe eyes at Carver. Leave it to Peaches to take a funeral as an opportunity to flirt with someone, especially one whose father was just killed. 

Carver doesn't seem to mind, however, and clasps Peaches' hand in his for a moment before releasing it again, looking a little embarrassed. 

"Leandra," Elder Mirian says, turning to my mother. "Do you require any assistance, given the tragic loss of your husband? If you require work for yourself or your children, I may be able to find something for you." 

"No, that won't be necessary," Mother replies. "My eldest won't be leaving town after all, and will be staying on to look after us." 

"Your husband was a good man," Elder Miriam says. "I don't know what I would have done if it hadn't been for his potions. And he supplied them for cheaper than anyone else would, too." 

"I'll still be supplying them for the same price, Elder Miriam," I say. "You don't need to worry about that. In fact, I've got a fresh batch ready waiting at home." 

"Oh, bless you, child," Elder Miriam says. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a bit of a nasty look from Carver. I meet his icy gaze for only a second before looking away quickly. I go up over toward the Revered Mother. 

"My condolences for your loss," the Revered Mother says to me. "Malcolm Hawke is with the Maker now." 

"Thank you," I murmur reflexively. Otherwise, I wouldn't know what to say to that, if I really thought much about it. If the Maker exists, would being at his side really be such a good thing? The Chantry always tells us that the Maker abandoned the world, after all, and turned his back upon humanity for our sins. Even if he's real, I don't know if that's the sort of divine being that I would want to worship. 

"However, it is never those who have moved on that truly need words of comfort, but those who have been left behind," the Revered Mother says. 

"I'm less upset about the fact that he's dead and more the way it happened," I say quietly. "I just... I wish I could have prevented it. I was-- I was too weak. I should have been able to stop it..." 

"Don't blame yourself, dear child. It was not your fault." 

But it was, oh but it was. I can't say that, though. I can never say that. It's bad enough that Carver knows the whole story, but I suppose that was inevitable. 

"He was killed by an apostate, I'm told. A blood mage, was it?" 

I give a small nod. At least that story is true, even though I'm not going to tell them that the blood mage in question was actually me. 

"As is spoken in the Chant of Light: Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him," the Revered Mother says. "Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children. They shall be named maleficar, accursed ones. They shall find no rest in this world or beyond." 

Tears sting my eyes, and I can't bring myself to look at her. I might not be trying to rule over anyone, but I've still taken that gift and turned it against others, and not even just those who deserve it. Well, I doubt that the Maker is going to strike me down on the spot or anything, but it still makes me wonder if I'm not doing something horribly, horribly wrong. 

"Be assured that the one who took your father from you will receive no peace in this world, or the next." 

There's no help for it, I suppose. My entire life is horribly wrong. There was no turning back, from the moment I agreed to a deal with a demon. It's not like I need the Maker, anyway. What did he ever do for me? I'll gain nothing from supporting him, and I'll lose nothing from ignoring him. 

"He's already dead," I murmur. "I killed him myself. But that's not much comfort." 

"Be comforted in the fact that the Maker will turn his sight from him. While your beloved father will receive the bounty of heaven, the foul maleficar who ended his life will be cast into the darkness beyond." 

Lies. These are nothing but lies. The Chantry knows nothing about what lies beyond the Fade. They know little enough of the Fade to begin with. They can't even prove that the Maker actually exists. 

"That's all well and good, Mother," I say quietly. "I just-- I just wish I had still had my father instead." 

"I can understand that, my child. My apologies if my words have brought you little comfort. The Maker knows that I do not mean to add to your grief." 

"It's alright. Perhaps my mother needs to hear your words more than I do. I'm sorry." 

The Revered Mother shakes her head. "There's no need to apologize to me, my child. I will leave you to your grief, then." 

I wander off into the crowd. Despite being surrounded by other people, I feel like there's an impenetrable wall between me and everyone else. I prefer it that way, really. Anyone that gets past that wall runs the risk of finding out secrets that I would rather they not learn. So I keep everyone at a distance whenever I can. I bury my feelings and harden my heart. I'm doomed to hurt those I care most about if I get too close to anyone. 

"I would hate to be whoever thought it was a good idea to go against Hawke," Allison says to the young man she's standing next to. Perhaps her brother? 

"Is he that dangerous?" the man asks. 

"You'd better believe it, dear. Don't you ever think about crossing him, you hear? Don't try to be all macho or anything with him. Just back down and leave him alone. It's not worth it." 

"I'll keep that in mind, Allison honey," the man, probably her husband actually, replies. 

I can't really blame Allison for thinking that I'm a scary person. I think I'm a scary person, too. Her advice is probably wise, really. Anyone wanting to live had better stay out of my way, or I might just wind up doing something unfortunate to them, whether I actually want to or not. 

No. I won't blame Ayande for my own actions. That's cowardly. It's far too easy to rain destruction and then blame it on a demon making me do it. I need to take responsibility for my own actions, whether they might have been influenced by a demon or not. I need to stay in control as much as possible, no matter how difficult that might be at times. I need to remain calm at all times. It's only when I'm angry that I really lose control. Sometimes, though, it's impossible to be anything but angry. 

I don't know. How can one such as me ever hope to find redemption? It seems like such a hopeless, pointless task. Maybe it would be easier just to give up and accept that I'm a monster. But no. I refuse to give up. I refuse to just be a monster. I refuse to just do the easy thing. 

I will do what's right, no matter how difficult it might be. I clench my fist and look to the sky. Bright and clear summer blue. It seems like it should be raining for a funeral. But the Maker, if he exists, clearly doesn't care. Is this shining sun trying to mock our losses, or setting a beacon of hope for the future? Or just... bright, shining, uncaring light, indifferent to our plight. I'm betting on the latter, really.


	9. Best Friends

I shiver involuntarily at the chill of the winter wind, bringing with it a flurry of snowflakes. It looks like it's started to snow again. I hate winter in Ferelden. I tug my coat and scarf closer around me and shuffle on through the forest. 

It's harder to find herbs in winter, but that doesn't spare me my job. In addition, there are certain ingredients used in potion making that can only be found in winter. The potions that I make from these will be much appreciated, come the following summer. 

I dig around under the snow for a bit, the icy chill biting into my hands even through my gloves. There, there's what I'm looking for. I pull up a small, pale blue mushroom. Ice caps. The poor man's substitute for frostrocks, assuming that poor man lives in a climate where the ground is covered with snow for at least two months out of the year. I'll be using these to make potions that can keep things cold, and then exporting those potions up north to be used by rich nobles to help to preserve food. 

I put the ice cap into my pack and move on to see if I can find anymore. If I can get enough of them, my family will be well cared for this year. Healing potions are a good source of income, but I feel better about taking money from the rich than from the poor. 

A small, high-pitched whimpering sound pierces the cold winter day. I frown, peering about to try to discern the source of it. That almost sounded like some sort of animal, a dog probably. 

After some searching and following the quiet sounds, I come upon a mabari hound, half-buried in the falling snow. My foot strikes something next to the dog that doesn't quite feel like rock or wood. I brush away some snow to find that I'd kicked a human leg. Quickly, I set my staff aside and uncover more of the body, wondering if this person might still be alive. 

The dog nudges against the half-frozen body, and then bumps against my leg. There's no help for this man. A bloody slash wound in his neck makes it clear that he was dead long before the snow started to cover him. 

"I'm afraid your master is dead, boy," I say regretfully to the hound, examining him next. 

One of his rear legs appears to be broken, and there are slashes across his flank from a blade. I don't know much about dog anatomy, but even I can tell that a broken bone probably isn't a good sign. 

"I'm afraid I don't have any potions for you on me. Dogs don't get the same benefit from elfroot. So it'll have to be magic. Hold still, boy, alright?" 

The dog nods his head, and I kneel down beside him. I call forth healing magic to flow into the animal, first working to close the cuts, and then moving down to see what I can do about that leg. Concentrating deeply, I use magical sight to guide my hands and hold the bone in place while I push healing energy through to mend it. After several minutes of work, the bone knits itself together, and the dog barks happily, wagging his stubby tail. Or really more of wagging his butt. 

Healing bones is always a tricky procedure that requires a lot of focus. It's not like you can just throw magic at someone and expect everything to snap back into place perfectly. Well, alright, Father did mention that there were mages who could do this. I'm not one of them, however. Although I'm perfectly capable of healing magic, my real talents lie with fire. Or, as my father said they were classified by the Circle, healing would fall under the magical school of Creation, while fire falls under Primal. 

The dog whimpers softly and lays his head down on top of his former master's corpse. I check through the body to see if there's any indication of who this man was. A pouch containing a handful of coins, a bag containing a few vials of what appears to be poison, and a long knife fallen in the snow by his hand. There's also a letter written in Orlesian. I can't read Orlesian, however, so it's meaningless to me. I tuck it away anyway, though, just in case it might be useful or interesting. 

"So, was your master a bandit, boy?" I ask, looking at the vials with a critical eye. 

The dog barks. 

"Was that a yes bark or a no bark?" I wonder. 

The dog barks again. 

"You know, I know how some Fereldans seem to be able to understand their dogs, but I haven't really been around many in my life before. So, is that a bark for yes, a whine for no, perhaps?" 

The dog barks happily. 

"I'm just going to assume that's a yes and move on now," I say, smirking. "It's cold out here. What do you say we head home? There's a nice warm fire on the hearth waiting for us back at my house. How does that sound, boy?" 

The dog barks excitedly and wags his butt at that. 

I head away from the corpse after collecting anything of value from it and grabbing my staff. I'm not above looting bodies. He was probably a bandit anyway, and it's not like he needed it anymore. The snow is coming down harder now, and the body will be buried again in short order. The dog bounds along after me, seeming to be quite happy that his leg has been fixed. 

"I suppose there's no use in asking you what your name is," I comment. "Eh, for all I know, your former master was a lazy idiot who just called you 'Dog' or something, anyway." 

The dog barks, bounding through the snow after me. 

"Or maybe he called you something stupid, like Rabbit," I go on. "Or obvious, like Bandit." 

The dog whines a little, cocking his head at me. 

"What, was that supposed to be a no?" I say. "So he did just call you Dog after all?" 

The dog barks happily, bouncing around me playfully. 

"Or maybe you just want to play now." I smirk. "You've got an awful lot of energy for someone that was just dying in the snow. Or are you just happy to see me?" 

The dog barks enthusiastically. 

"I'd still imagine that you could do with something to eat and a rest in front of the fire. How long were you out there, anyway? It couldn't have been too long, I suppose. At least whoever killed your former master wasn't still around." 

Soon enough, we arrive back home. The dog charges inside and promptly shakes himself off, sending flecks of snow flying everywhere. 

Mother blinks in surprise and brushes a bit of snow off of her cheek. "Well, that was unexpected." 

I grin broadly. "Look what followed me home, Mother. Can I keep him?" 

"Oh, a mabari!" Bethany exclaims. "How sweet!" 

"It's a war dog," Carver says. "'Sweet' isn't really the right word for it. That's a vicious fighter who will bite the leg off of anyone who threatens his master." 

The dog barks cheerfully. 

"Or possibly just rip their throat out," Carver adds. 

The dog lolls out his tongue and wags his tail. 

"Well, having a mabari hound around will certainly be useful in protecting the house, I suppose," Mother says. "But how much will he eat?" 

"I can cover it, Mother," I assure her. "Do we have any of that meat left?" 

The dog barks happily at the sound of that as Mother goes to the larder. I lean my staff against the wall and take a seat. 

"I don't suppose I ought to suggest that he can catch his own rabbits or whatnot," Carver says. 

The dog whimpers softly and cocks his head at Carver. 

"Those poor little bunnies," Bethany says. 

"Those poor tasty bunnies," I say. 

The dog barks in agreement. Mother returns and places a plate with a bit of meat and a bowl of water in the corner for him. The dog cheerfully goes over to gobble down the meat and lap up the water. 

"I hope you appreciate this, boy," Mother says. "That was going to be our dinner tonight, you know." 

"I can go and buy some more meat," I say. 

"All I'm saying is that if he's going to stay here, he'd better earn his keep," Mother says, looking at the dog accusingly. 

The dog barks. 

"Oh, he's just a dog!" Bethany says. 

"A war dog," Carver adds. "Where did you get him, anyway? It looks like he's managed to imprint upon you." He adds in a mutter, "Takes all kinds, I guess. He obviously doesn't know you very well." 

"By the corpse of his former master," I say, choosing to ignore the latter comment. "A bandit, from the looks of things. No idea who might have killed him, but the poor dog was wounded at the time and I healed him." 

"That would do it, I suppose," Carver says, looking at me with a touch of jealousy. "You're lucky. I wish I had a mabari dog." 

"Well, we certainly don't need _two_ war dogs in the house," Mother says. She doesn't seem to have heard Carver's muttering about me. "One will be more than sufficient, I think. And will probably eat as much as the rest of us combined." 

The dog whimpers and cocks his head at Mother. 

"Don't give me that look," Mother says. "I know you will." 

"Hmm, so, what are we going to call you?" I say. "Can't just go around calling you 'Dog' or 'boy' all the time." 

"Let's call him Fluffy!" Bethany suggests. 

The dog whines and looks at Bethany. 

"He's not the least bit fluffy, Bethany," Carver says. "A war dog needs a badass name. Like Ripper or Fang. A dangerous name, just like his master." The way he says it could be complimentary, if it weren't for the look he gives me. 

The dog cocks his head and twitches his ears at Carver almost suspiciously, as if daring him to try anything. 

"Well, mabari hounds are said to be as smart as people," Mother says. "I say, give him a people name. Like Robert or Charles." 

The dog whimpers and looks at Mother oddly. I briefly consider naming the dog Malcolm, but I don't think it would go over well, especially with Carver. And I don't think I could bear having around a constant reminder of my crimes like that. 

Seeming to sense my disquiet, the dog comes over to me and nudges his muzzle against my leg, and rests his head on my knee. I take solace in his warmth and comfort, and smile at him faintly, patting him on the head. A strong bastion to keep despair and danger at bay. 

"Bastion..." I muse aloud. "How's that sound?" 

The dog lolls out his tongue, panting softly in a way that makes it look like he's grinning in approval at the name. I'll take that for as much of an answer as I'm likely to get. 

"I'll bet that he wouldn't care what you called him, so long as it's _you_ picking the name," Carver says dryly. 

"I'll bet that he doesn't care so long as it isn't 'late for dinner'," Mother adds. 

I chuckle softly. "Bastion it is, then." 

Bastion barks happily, wagging his butt. 

* * *

The next morning, I head out with Bastion after breakfast to continue the herb hunt that had gotten interrupted yesterday. Far from seeming weak or tired after the events of the previous day, Bastion is full of boundless energy, dashing about in circles around me and charging through the snow playfully. 

"So, Bastion, I don't suppose you're good at finding ice caps, are you?" 

Bastion stops and cocks his head up at me, ears twitching in puzzlement. 

"I'll show you one if I can find one," I say. "They're these blue mushrooms that grow under the snow. They don't even start growing until the ground is completely frozen, and they die a week after the first thaw. So you'll never find them very far north." 

I go up to a patch of likely ground and start digging through the snow with my gloved hands, clearing away enough to see if there are any ice caps growing there. After a bit of searching in a few places, I find one, and hold it up triumphantly. 

"Here's one. Take a good look, Bastion. Just don't eat it. If you do, you're not leaving the house for a month." 

Bastion whimpers softly and gives me the big, watery eyes. Then he takes a close look at the mushroom, sniffing at it for a minute. Then, he turns and hops off through the trees, sniffing around at the snow and digging his muzzle in here and there. 

"You find something, Bastion?" 

The dog stops, pointing his nose at a patch of ground. Sure enough, there's another ice cap mushroom waiting to be harvested right where he's indicating. 

"Good boy," I say, grinning as I pluck up the ice cap and put it away into my pack. I reach over to scratch him behind the ears. "You keep this up, and I'll be able to buy you steaks every day." 

Bastion barks happily and wags his little tail. I'm glad to have the assistance, and a friend who doesn't judge me for what I am. Would the dog even realize what an abomination is? Mabari are said to be as smart as people, but I can't imagine one turning against his master for any reason, no matter what kind of a person that master is. 

We continue on to search for more ice caps in a narrow valley south of town beneath a rocky ridge. From somewhere nearby, I think I can hear voices. From above, I think. I peer up, motioning to Bastion for quiet. It sounds like someone's up on top of the ridge. I hope they haven't spotted us yet. That could be a deadly position to fire arrows off from. 

I decide to circle around to try to come up on top of the ridge instead. As I'm going back to do so, I hear footsteps crunching in the snow. My path is blocked by three scruffy looking men wielding swords. 

"I suggest you hand over whatever you've got, boy, if you don't want to become a pincushion," says their leader. 

I should be cautious. I still have a pair of thin, white matched marks on my left shoulder from where I took two arrows years ago. Bastion crouches down into an aggressive posture and lets out a low growl. 

"Say, Les, isn't that Armand's dog?" says the man on the left. 

"I dunno, mabari all look the same to me," the leader, Les apparently, replies. 

"Who's Armand?" I ask. "Wouldn't be a fellow that met an unfortunate end near town yesterday, would it?" 

"That's him," Les says. "So that _is_ his dog?" 

"Most likely," I say. "What's it to you?" 

"You didn't happen to find a letter on his body, did you?" Les asks. 

"What's it worth to you?" I ask. 

"Your life, for starters, boy," Les says. 

Bastion growls threateningly at him. 

"Why didn't you just collect it after you killed him, if it was so important?" 

"The blighted dog wouldn't let us get close," Les says. "And by the time we got a bow to shoot it with and came back, the dog was gone and someone had already looted the corpse. You, presumably." 

"Not that I care spit about this Armand, but why did you kill him, anyway?" 

"Turned out he was an Orlesian spy!" Les says. "I'm just trying to run a bandit pack here, robbing from travelers for coin and loot, doing a bit of smuggling on the side, you know how it goes. And there's Armand, getting himself neck deep in politics! Even bandits have to have standards. You've got to draw the line somewhere, you know?" 

I clench my fist with a touch of anger at this man's casual admittance of his crimes. I'm sorely tempted to just kill them all right here. My eyes flick up toward the ridge above. There's at least three archers with their bows trained on me right now, and probably a few more of them that I can't immediately spot. 

If I want to fight, this isn't a good position to be doing it from. And discretion may be the better part of valor. Now that I know where these bandits are loitering at the moment, I could always come back with Carver and get the jump on them. I'm confident that I could kill them all. Not so confident that I could do it without being wounded in the process. 

I pull the Orlesian letter out of my pouch. "Tell you what. What say I give you this, and then I walk away, hmm?" 

"And what's to stop you from just telling someone where we are?" Les says. "Or coming back with more?" 

"How important is this letter to you?" I say. 

"Important enough!" Les snaps. 

I hold up the parchment in my left hand, and then hold up my right, extending my finger. I grin broadly as I light a candle-sized flame on top of my finger. "I'm an apostate. I could burn this letter to ash before you could do anything. I could kill you all if I wanted to. I'm making you a good offer. I suggest you take it." 

Les's eyes widen. "We could just turn you in to the templars, you know." 

"The templars can't catch me. And whether they know about me or not, I'd be able to hunt you all down and kill you quite readily if you did." 

"He's got a point, Les," says the one on the left. 

Les sighs and gives a nod. "Fine. Fine. Give me the letter, and we both walk away and don't tell anyone about each other. Good enough?" 

"Good enough," I agree. I go over and pass over the letter to him. 

"Done, and done," Les says, glancing over the letter to make sure it's the one he's looking for. "You can run along now, boy. Well, unless you ever wanted to hire on with a bandit pack, at any rate." 

"No thanks," I reply. "Come along, Bastion." 

As I start to walk away, the bandit on the right says to the others, "Wasn't Armand's dog named Isabelle?" 

"Yeah, but Armand was too dumb to realize that his dog was a boy," says the one on the left. 

Baston whines pathetically, and I snicker a bit. "Right... Come along, Bastion," I repeat. The dog barks happily and bounds after me. 

* * *

"I didn't know you'd gotten a dog!" Tamra says to Bethany, sipping at a cup of tea. 

"He's Hawke's dog, actually," Bethany replies. "His name is Bastion." 

"I found him out in the snow next to his former master's body," I put in from across the room, where I'm preparing to head out again. 

"He's settled into the family quite nicely," Bethany says. 

"Carver!" I call. "I'd like you to come along today, if you don't mind." 

"What for?" Carver protests. 

"I ran across some bandits yesterday while out hunting ice caps," I say. 

"Oh my," Tamra says. "Bandits! That must have been scary, all by yourself, even if you did have a war dog with you. How did you ever get away?" 

"Or did you kill them all?" Carver asks dryly. 

"We parted ways without hostilities," I say. "I wasn't in a good position to fight, and I had information to trade for my safety." 

"Like you of all people would need insurance for your safety," Carver mutters. 

"They had archers on a ridge overhead. I didn't care to push my luck." 

"Since when have you ever been cautious?" Carver wonders. "So, what, you want me to come along and help you kill them, then?" 

"It would be appreciated, brother," I say. "Alternatively, I could just go and do it myself." 

Carver shakes his head. "No, I think somebody needs to go along and keep an eye on you." 

"If there's bandits out there somewhere, there might just be a reward for dealing with them," Tamra says. "Have you checked the Chanter's board?" 

"I suppose it couldn't hurt to take a look," I say. 

"Were there a lot of bandits?" Bethany says. "Maybe-- Maybe I should come along, too." 

"Bethany?" I say, looking at her in surprise. 

"And, well, even if there isn't a bounty posted for them, they're still doing bad things and hurting people, right?" Bethany says. "I can fight, too..." 

Tamra spontaneously hugs Bethany. "I'm so proud of you, Bethany! You don't need to be scared anymore. You're a strong woman!" 

I give a small smile. "Well, alright, you can come along if you want, of course." 

"If Bethany's coming, then I'm coming too," Tamra says. 

I blink at Tamra. "You, too?" 

"I'm going to be a knight when I grow up!" Tamra says. "I've been practicing with the sword and everything. I can go home and grab mine and put on my armor, and meet you in front of the Chantry." 

Before I can respond, Tamra rushes out of the front door. 

I frown a little after her. Once she's gone, I turn to Bethany and ask, "Does she know?" 

Bethany shakes her head. "I didn't expect her to want to come along, too, but I suppose it shouldn't surprise me." 

"We'll have to tell her, then," I say. "How do you suppose she'll react?" 

"I really don't know," Bethany says. "She never gave me the impression of hating mages or anything, though." 

The three of us, plus one dog, gather up our own gear and head out in front of the Chantry. I glance over Chanter Devons' notice board to see if there's any mention of the latest pack of bandits on it, but there's nothing up right now except something about giant spiders. 

Shortly enough, Tamra arrives, fully donned up in studded leather with a small sword at her hip. She almost looks like she's really older than seventeen, dressed like that. At least, I think I remember that Bethany mentioned that Tamra was a year and a half older than her. 

"Well, let's go, then!" Tamra says excitedly. 

I lead the way away from Lothering and in the general direction of the ridge where I'd encountered the bandits the day before. I can't help but feel like I'm shepherding a group of children playing at war. I've only just passed my twentieth naming day myself. I shouldn't look down on fifteen and seventeen year olds so, really. I was far younger than them when I killed my first men, after all. 

Still, I have to wonder if any of these three have any clue what battle is really like, how bloody and violent it can be. I severely doubt it. Especially Bethany. I'm not so sure about Tamra. I never suspected that she had aspirations toward knighthood. I've barely interacted with her before. 

When I judge that we're far enough away from the village not to be readily overheard, I say, "Tamra, there's something you ought to know. About me and Bethany." 

"What is it?" Tamra wonders, raising an eyebrow. 

"And I'd really appreciate if you wouldn't tell anyone," I say. "We're apostates." 

Tamra stares at me for a long moment, then looks at Bethany accusingly. "You're a mage? And you never told me? We've known each other forever! Didn't you trust me?" 

Bethany looks at the ground, and says in a small voice, "I'm sorry, Tamra. I never wanted to be a mage, but I was born with this curse anyway. I didn't want anyone to find out. I was so afraid of the templars. Please forgive me." 

Tamra sighs and pouts a little. "Oh, Bethany, I can't stay mad at you when you sound like that. Can't I just be miffed at you for a little while?" 

"So you're not going to take us to the templars?" I say. 

"Of course not," Tamra says. "I wouldn't do that to a friend. Or a friend's brother, because no matter how harmless or dangerous you might be, I'd never hear the end of it from her if I did." 

I snicker softly. "I'm glad to hear that, because I'd hate to have to kill you. I'd never hear the end of it from her if I did." 

Both Bethany and Tamra give me horrified looks. I grin back at them, and they relax a little, and then after a moment, Tamra looks horrified again. "I-- You aren't joking after all, are you." 

"No. I'm not." 

"I don't want to be locked up in the Circle," Bethany murmurs. "Or worse, be made Tranquil..." 

"I..." Tamra says. "I guess it never occurred to me just how serious it was. I've never really met any mages before, or at least I thought I hadn't. It just seems like a distant problem, for other people to worry about." 

"Except that it's not, for us," I say. 

Tamra nods. "I wouldn't have told anyone, Bethany. But I suppose I can see why you were so afraid." 

"Thank you, Tamra," Bethany says quietly. 

After some walking, we come to the spot where I'd encountered the bandits before. I hold up a hand as we draw close, and the group grows quiet. There's no help for our feet crunching in the snow, but at least we can try to avoid anyone getting the drop on us. 

We step out of the trees into a more clear area on the top of the ridge. Les approaches us again, flanked by the same two goons as yesterday, with several more at his back. 

"So, you're back, are you?" Les says. "And you've brought help." He sneers. "Assuming I can consider these kids you've brought to be much help." 

"We have come to slay you, foul bandits!" Tamra says, pulling out her sword and pointing it at them. 

"Oh, please," Les says, rolling his eyes. "I'm more concerned about your apostate friend than a brat with a sword." 

"Does anyone who isn't present in this camp at the moment know that I'm an apostate?" I ask. 

"Doubtful," Les says. "Why, have you come back to kill us all to keep your secret? Why even tell us, then?" 

"No, I've come back because you're bandits, and I don't like bandits," I say. "You prey upon the weak and helpless, steal money from the poor and take food from the hungry." 

"Oh, it's a matter of principle, then?" Les says. "I would have thought they'd have posted a bounty for us by this point." 

"There isn't any bounty posted," Carver says. 

"But that doesn't mean you aren't bad people who deserve to die!" Tamra says. 

"You know, if there were a bounty, I could just offer you double the bounty for you to go away," Les says. "But, since it's just a matter of principle, I'm afraid I'm going to have to kill you kids. Nothing personal." 

When he signals his men to attack, my group is prepared. I throw fire at the bandits as Carver, Tamra, and Bastion charge in, and Bethany hangs back to provide defense and healing while freezing the occasional bandit with ice magic. She's a lot better at defensive magic than I've ever hoped to be, and I'm surprised and pleased at how far her lessons have come. 

When the battle is over, Bethany looks over the charred and bloody corpses, practically turning green and looking away. "Oh, Maker, so much blood..." 

"They were bandits," Tamra says, wiping off her sword and putting it away. "They had it coming. And, you know, something about the Maker hating people who steal and bring harm and all that." 

"I'm not going to deny that," Bethany says, then looks over to me. "What are you doing?" 

"What? I'm looting the bodies," I say, pulling out another handful of coins and pocketing them. 

"How can you even think about sifting through burned bodies for money?" Bethany asks incredulously. 

"Easily. It keeps food on the table and makes my dog happy," I reply. "I just need to remember to wash my hands afterward." 

"Disgusting!" Bethany says, making a face. 

"We really ought to find those who the bandits stole from and return their money to them," Tamra says. 

"Feel free to check," I say. "Just make sure they aren't claiming to have been stolen from just in the hopes of getting money back." 

"Why would anyone do something like that?" Tamra wonders. 

"Why would anyone steal from others in the first place?" I counter. 

"But those are bad people," Tamra says. "Why would good people lie?" 

I give Tamra a long look, wondering if she can really be that naive. "The world isn't so black and white, Tamra. Sometimes bad people do good things. Sometimes good people do bad things. Sometimes people you think are good aren't really good, and sometimes people you think are bad aren't really bad." 

"I-- That makes no sense, though!" Tamra protests. 

"She's right," Carver says. "Why, for all you know, Bethany might actually be a blood mage, and I could be an abomination!" 

"That's absurd. You aren't even a mage, Carver," Tamra says. 

I carefully don't look at either of them, focusing on gathering up any ill-gotten valuables from the bandit camp. 

"That's not the point," Carver says. "You didn't even realize that both of my siblings were mages. You can't know everything. Everyone has secrets. Sometimes good ones, sometimes bad ones. Sometimes they use the good to cover up for the bad." 

Tamra sighs and turns away. "The world is so confusing." 

"Yes," I agree. "That it is."


	10. The Maker's Will

I'm sitting in Dane's Refuge drinking down some cold ale. The tavern is full of others getting cold drinks to cool them down from the summer's warmth. I don't think it's all that warm, however. It's at least not freezing, which is more than can be said about this part of Ferelden a lot of the time. 

At the moment, there actually appears to be several unfamiliar templars, which always makes me a little tense. I doubt that they're here for me, though. It still makes me a bit worried that someone has, for whatever reason, decided to increase the templar presence in Lothering. Maybe they're just passing though. Maker, I certainly hope so. The last thing I need to deal with is more templars around here. 

"Where do you think this Witch of the Wilds is located?" asks one of them. 

"Rumor has it that she can be found somewhere to the south of Lothering, in the Korcari Wilds," says another, who I guess to be the leader of this particular group of templars. 

"In the wilds? Bah, we're not going to find anything there but wilder folk, assuming we find even that." 

"Do you have a problem with our orders, Ser Thiall?" 

Thiall is quiet for a moment, then hastily replies, "No, ser, not at all." 

"We are the blades of the Maker. We will be the scourge that cleanses the world of evil. Abominations, maleficars, all of ill intent and darkness within their souls shall know the wrath of the Maker." 

I drain my mug and slip out of the tavern before anyone turns unwanted attention in my direction. I doubt it, as I make a point not to look like a mage as much as possible, aside from my use of a staff, and lots of people use staves. But I'd rather not take any chances, when a group of obviously templars is around who are obviously more self-righteous than usual. Whoever this Witch of the Wilds is that they're searching for, I kind of have to hope that she eats these men for lunch. 

I find myself wandering over for a walk in the gardens behind the Chantry. Perhaps not the best place to be if I'm trying to avoid templars, but they don't generally come back here. That's usually just the sisters. The templars have better things to be doing than hanging around plants and flowers, I suppose. Like training their swordwork and anti-magic abilities to be ready to skewer any maleficars they come across. 

In doing so, I almost stumble upon a red-haired woman in Chantry robes. "Oh, I'm sorry," I say quickly. "I didn't realize anyone was back here. I'll go if you want to be alone." 

"No, that's quite alright," says the woman. She has a distinct Orlesian accent. "It's not like I own the garden. Come, sit with me, if you like. It's lovely back here, isn't it?" 

I shrug and go over to sit on the bench with her. "Yeah, it is. I'm Hawke, by the way." 

"My name is Leliana. Well, Sister Leliana now, I suppose. I'm still getting used to that." 

"You haven't been a sister for very long, I take it?" 

"No, I haven't," Leliana says a little wistfully. 

"I don't think that's something that I could ever do," I admit. 

"I thought the same as you, for the longest time," Leliana says. "I never would have imagined that my life would have taken me here. And yet, here I am. Perhaps here, my heart will find some comfort and solace in the arms of the Maker." 

I decide not to say anything at that. I'm not exactly as devout as I perhaps could be, but I see no need to go around offending Chantry sisters unnecessarily. I can keep my doubts about the Maker to myself. 

"So, I take it by your accent that you're originally from Orlais, am I right?" 

"I'm Fereldan, but I was raised in Orlais," Leliana says. "And I still miss it dearly. Especially the shoes! Oh, these horrible boots everyone in Ferelden likes to wear..." 

I chuckle softly. "I would not have expected a Chantry sister to start going on about shoes." 

"Well-- Wait, you're a woman, aren't you? I took you for a boy at first!" 

"I was born a girl, yes. But I live as a man." I'm twenty, and a powerful mage. I have no need to hide under the guise of being a boy any longer, and can't really do so nearly as effectively as I used to be able to, but I find that I'm still much more comfortable as a man. Like this is my real self, and not just a disguise. 

"Oh, I see," Leliana says. "So you don't like to dress up every now and then, don't you? Put on a pretty dress, and some fancy shoes?" 

"I don't actually own any, I'm afraid," I reply. 

"Oh, you're not interested in that sort of thing, I suppose? You must be quite the warrior to dress like that." 

"I've killed a few bandits in my time," I say, shrugging. 

"I'm sure you have," Leliana says. "And you could probably kill the ladies, too, I would imagine." 

"Huh?" I say, blinking at her. "Why would I want to do something like that?" 

"Oh, I don't mean literally, of course. Never mind me." 

"Color me confused," I say. "Wait, were you just hitting on me or something?" 

"No, no, not at all! That's not what I meant. I mean, you're a very attractive woman. A very handsome man, I mean. But, well, I'm not really looking at the moment. Don't take this the wrong way." 

"But you're a woman!" I protest. "Why would women be interested in other women in the first place?" 

"I know plenty of women are a bit squeamish about the idea of being with another woman, especially here in Ferelden. Things were a little different in Orlais, of course." 

"But you're a Chantry sister!" I say. 

"Technically, I'm a lay sister. I have not taken any vows. I merely live and work in the Chantry." 

I look at her incredulously, uncertain of just what to say in response to that. It's not the first time a girl has attempted to flirt with me, but it's certainly the first time that a girl who realized that I'm not a boy attempted to flirt with me. That just seems so very... Orlesian. 

"Um... Leliana... Why don't we... get to know each other a little better, alright?" 

Leliana doesn't seem the least bit discouraged by that. "Oh, of course. I was hardly suggesting leaping into bed with you right now! I'm not that kind of woman!" 

"You're some kind of woman, certainly," I say, chuckling and relaxing a bit. "Sorry, I just-- I suppose I was misunderstanding your intention. Um. Let's talk about the Maker!" 

"Oh! Of course," Leliana says. "You know, whatever others might say, I don't believe that the Maker has truly abandoned this world." 

"That's... an unusual belief," I say, looking at her with a touch of surprise. 

"His guiding hand is everywhere, offering light even in the deepest darkness." 

"I think I kind of like your ideas better," I mutter. "But how about those sinners? The Maker really hates them, doesn't he?" 

"I think there is room in the Maker's heart for forgiveness for all people," Leliana says. 

"What, no matter what they've done?" 

"Who of us hasn't done things that we regret in the past?" Leliana says, staring off at nothing quietly. 

I quietly look at the ground myself. "I don't know how there can ever be forgiveness for some of us." 

"If we don't have hope for forgiveness in this life or the next, what do we have?" Leliana replies. 

"I don't know," I say. "It's just... I've killed so many people. I couldn't even tell you that all of them really deserved it." 

"I know what you mean," Leliana says softly. "I shared your doubts once, myself. But someone opened my eyes, and gave me hope. But I believe now that there is room for forgiveness, for redemption, even for the likes of you. And for me..." 

"Redemption..." I murmur. "Now there's a lovely thought." I shake my head and stand up. "But I'm not going to go looking for it by becoming a Chantry sister like you. I wish you luck with that, though. I have to find my own redemption, however." 

"I hope you find what you seek, Hawke," Leliana says. "Remember, the Maker will always be there, ready to welcome you with open arms." 

I give her a small nod as I walk away and leave the Chantry garden. I'm afraid that, whatever her words, they haven't really done as much as she might have hoped for to assuage my doubts about the Maker. The Maker turned his back on the world for humanity's sin, the Chantry teaches us, and I really haven't seen much evidence to the contrary. I'm sure that there are many who cry out to the Maker for salvation, and their cries fall upon deaf ears. Where is the Maker when a little girl is being raped and crying out for help from anyone that might be able to hear her? 

I clench my fists with a sudden flash of rage at that thought. No, not here. I must not start glowing here. Those templars are in sight, the ones I saw earlier in Dane's Refuge. Where are they going now? Probably out to find that Witch of the Wilds they were talking about before. 

And there's another thing about the Chantry. The templars, claiming to be the Chantry's right hand. Is what they do to mages really just or right? Not every mage is an abomination or a blood mage. Most of the ones in the Circle of Magi were ripped from their families as children, or worse, their own families cast them out, due to the fear and hatred of having a mage in the family. What a terrible thought. How did it ever come to pass that such a wonderful gift should be thought of as a curse? 

The group of templars is slowly making their way out of the village. And I can practically feel my control starting to slip, like cracking ice covering the surface of a lake. I rush home, at first thinking to hide myself away in my room to make sure that nobody will see my next outburst. But then I see the staff propped up against the wall by the door, and grab it. No, I'm not going to sit by quietly and allow another injustice to pass without comment. 

"Are you going somewhere, dear?" Mother asks from the kitchen. 

"Hunting," I reply simply. "Come along, Bastion." The dog pants happily and follows after me, and we head out the door without another word. 

The templars have already left by the time I'm equipped and ready for battle. I head off into the wilderness in the general direction that they were going. South, into the Korcari Wilds. I hope I can locate them quickly. Otherwise I might wind up spending a few days wandering around out here, and I didn't bring any provisions, so I'll need to collect my own. No matter. I can always gather some herbs while I'm out here, anyway. 

But these templars... There were maybe five or six of them, out hunting apostates in the wilds. I'm sure this probably has something to do with the gall the Chasind barbarians must have had for not sending their mageling children to the Circle like good Chantry followers. As if the Chasind follow the tenets of the Chantry anyway. What next, are they going to start hunting down the Dalish elves for not being good Andrasteans, too? That wouldn't surprise me, either. 

It's all a matter of control. The Chantry has to control everything. They don't like anything to be outside of their control. And the templars are the worst branch of the Chantry there is. And any tenet that considers one to be a criminal deserving of being imprisoned simply for being the way they were born is one that I in no way can ever agree with. 

I come upon the templars' trail. They went this way, tromping through the foliage with their big, armored boots. They aren't exactly ones big on stealth or subtlety. Moving quickly and by myself, it should not pose any real difficulty for me to catch up with them and shadow them. I imagine that I know the forest far better than they do, as well. 

I have to give a small grin at the thought of killing templars. And they're from out of town, so I'll be able to get away with it, too. It would look far too suspicious if the local templars who are actually stationed in Lothering started going miss. But a group like this who specifically went out to hunt down a supposed Witch of the Wilds? Well, I'm sure no one could ever blame me for them having run afoul of the Chasind folk, or met their end at the hands of the mighty witch herself. 

The reasonable, logical part of my mind tells me that I'm being reckless. This could be very dangerous. They're templars. They have abilities to really screw with magic. Even with Bastion's help, this may be a very difficult fight. Perhaps it would be best to trail after them until they actually find a mage, and take advantage of that distraction to do away with them. Whatever these rumors of Witches of the Wilds are probably exaggerated, and if they actually find a witch out here, she'd doubtless appreciate the help. 

I shadow the templar group for much of the day, and after they make camp for the night, I take some time to do some foraging for something to eat myself. 

"Sorry, Bastion," I say. "I suppose you'll have to go hunt down something for yourself. You can do that, can you? I promise I'll make it up to you later." 

Bastion cocks his head at me and his ears droop a bit, but he goes and hunts down a rabbit to eat. It's been a while since I've been out in the wilderness overnight, and I don't dare take the chance of making a fire. I'm not so good with magical defenses as Bethany is, and given that I'm more worried about the templars than any of the wildlife at the moment, it would probably be just as well if I skipped them tonight. 

I settle in to sleep in a bed of leaves and moss, and Bastion flops down beside me and curls up next to me. I could have done with taking a moment to do some packing beforehand. No matter. I sleep regardless. At least I don't need to worry about hurting anyone I care about at the moment. 

I wake sometime the next morning. The sun is already well into the sky. How did I manage to oversleep in these conditions? It probably just took me that long to get to sleep that by the time I did, I didn't really want to wake up. 

The templars didn't stumble upon me while I was asleep, but they've already moved on by this point. Still, their trail is easy to follow, and I step in line to trace the route they've taken through the wilderness, mabari hound at my side. 

I hear voices ahead in the trees. Not just even, calm conversation, but it sounds like they're shouting, arguing with one another, although I can't make out the words from here. I creep closer quietly, trying to figure out what's going on. Are they having an internal disagreement, or did they run across some wilder folk? I can't get close enough to see much, though, without risking being spotted. 

"Is this our sacred duty? To cut down hapless wilder folk?" 

Bastion gives a low growl, ears twitching. 

"If you have doubts, Ser Thiall, perhaps you should spend some time in the Chantry when we return to Lothering. There will be time enough to affirm your knowledge of the Maker's will later. We have a duty to fulfill." 

"No, I think that now is the proper time," Ser Thiall replies. "And these are not the only doubts that I have." 

"Do you fear the blade of justice, Ser Thiall? Do you fear the sacred duty that drives us forth? There is no room for doubt in the duty of the templars. There is no room for doubt in abiding by the Maker's will. Come, Ser Thiall, I shall cut that fear out from you, here and now!" 

The sound of metal. Swords. A struggle? What's going on? I can't see anything from here. Did the lead templar really attack this Ser Thiall simply for doubting their duty? But I'm too late to help him, I fear. A body falls to the ground, and the scene grows quiet again. Too late. I'm too late to help their latest victim, who was astonishingly one of their own. I wait until the templars have moved away again, and approach the spot where they were arguing. 

Ser Thiall isn't dead yet. He's on his knees with his hands and head to the forest floor, blood pooling in front of him, pouring out of a wound on his neck. He'll be dead in moments if I do nothing. I don't even stop to think. I rush up to him and channel healing magic into him. 

The slash seals up, but he's still lost a lot of blood. I continue to flood him with healing energy to help replenish his strength, and bring out a healing potion from my belt. I've gotten into the habit of always carrying a handful of potions with me, even while just loitering about the tavern. If someone were to become hurt in a public place where I couldn't readily use healing magic, I'd much rather have another option for being able to save them. 

Ser Thiall drinks down the potion that I give him. He sits himself down heavily against the trunk of a tree, letting out a heavy breath. "Apostate... You saved me?" Bastion remains on guard for signs of hostility. 

"Just because I'm an apostate doesn't mean I'm evil, crazy, or heartless," I reply. "Saving you might have been a foolish risk on my part. But I couldn't just leave you to die like that, not when I could still help you." 

"Did you... did you hear our argument?" Ser Thiall asks. 

I give a nod. "I heard enough, at any rate." 

Ser Thiall gives me a long look, and says, "You don't look like one of the Chasind folk. Were you following us?" 

I nod again, and then give a short bark of laughter. "To be honest, I'd been considering killing you all, in hopes of sparing any innocent wilder folk from your wrath." 

"I'm surprised that you'd admit to that," Ser Thiall says. "An apostate, hunting down templars to slaughter... I should probably cut you down where you stand." 

"Well, if you want to attack me now, after I've saved your life, I suppose I won't feel bad about cutting you down for being an ungrateful moron." 

Ser Thiall smirks. "Don't get me wrong. I'm grateful for your help. Apostate or no. Even if you were intending to kill us. Why did you save me, then?" 

"You didn't seem like a bad person," I say. "I didn't think you deserved to die." 

"Maker..." Ser Thiall breathes. "I never thought it would come to this. I never thought that I might end up being attacked by one of my brothers, only to be saved by the very thing that we're supposed to be hunting." 

"The world works in strange ways sometimes, doesn't it," I comment. 

"You don't seem the sort of person that I would expect it to be our duty to hunt down." He grunts. "Even if you were planning to kill us all." He looks to the corpse of a young Chasind woman laying not far way. "I might just hope that you'd chosen to attack us quickly enough to have perhaps saved her." 

I give the body a somber look, and nod. "I only just caught up with your group again while you were having your little argument." I examine him a bit. "How are you feeling?" 

"Better," Ser Thiall replies. "Still weak. But I think I can walk now." He struggles to get to his feet, and I go over to help him up. 

I put a bit more magic into him to help him recover his strength. "Think you can make it back to Lothering?" 

"I don't know," Ser Thiall replies, frowning deeply at me. "What are you going to do? Catch up with the others and finish what you were planning?" 

I stare off to the south, in the direction the other templars went, for several long moments. "Who was this Witch of the Wilds I heard you talking about before, anyway?" I ask. 

"Flemeth, they say her name is," Ser Thiall says. "Surely you must have heard of her, if you live around here." 

"I don't tend to pay much attention to myth and superstition," I say. "Perhaps I ought to?" 

Ser Thiall grunts. "I don't know if she exists or not, myself." He looks sadly at the corpse of the Chasind woman. "But if she does, I doubt she would be as easy a battle as the others seemed to believe. Templar powers might be useful against mages, but they're far from perfect." 

"So they're only really a threat to barbarian hedge witches who can't really even defend themselves, and not so much to any legendary Witches of the Wilds who might have incredible powers and be hundreds of years old?" 

"Exactly," Ser Thiall says. 

I don't even know whether or not _I_ would be able to handle four or five templars, myself, though. I stare off to the south again and assess the situation. Ser Thiall isn't dying anymore, but I doubt he would be able to make it back to Lothering by himself. And if this witch really exists, she probably doesn't need my help, anyway. 

I sigh softly. I'd really wanted to kill some templars. But perhaps my magic would serve best to help rather than harm, right now. "I'll get you back to Lothering." 

"You're not going to go hunting them down after all?" Ser Thiall asks with a touch of surprise. 

I shake my head. "It's not worth it. Don't get me wrong. I'm still not overly fond of templars. But I won't just leave you out here by yourself, in your condition." 

"I am grateful to you again," Ser Thiall says. "I'm afraid I did not catch your name." 

"Hawke," I reply. 

"Hawke," Ser Thiall repeats, nodding. "I am Ser Thiall. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Hawke." He puts his fist across his chest. 

"Let's get moving then, shall we?" 

The two of us turn to head back for Lothering along the trail that I'd followed the templars. It's slow going, with Ser Thiall still being fairly weak and trudging along in his armor. I keep a close eye out to avoid any wolves or giant spiders that might decide that we'd make good targets. 

Once we get back to the hollow where I spent the night, I put up my hand to stop him. "This is a pretty defensible position. Let's remain here for the night and give you a chance to rest up a bit." 

Ser Thiall nods, and settles in to rest and take off his armor. I put up some magical defenses, gather a pile of wood and set it on fire with magic. It's strange to be able to use magic openly, in front of a templar no less, without having to worry about it. 

"Those wards should keep out any large animals that might wander in," I say. "I'm going to go gather something to eat. I'll leave Bastion with you for the moment." 

Ser Thiall just nods again, leaning forward to warm his hands over the fire. It's the middle of summer, and he's cold? He must be from somewhere a bit warmer than here, clearly. 

I return to the campsite a while later with my pack full of fruits, berries, and nuts, and distribute two thirds of the bounty to Ser Thiall. "It's not much, I'm afraid, but it'll keep our stomachs from growling until we get back to town." 

"You have my thanks," Ser Thiall says. 

"I could have at least thought to pack a cookpot or bedroll when I decided to run off after some templars into the wilderness," I mutter, chuckling. "Bastion, you want to go hunt down something to eat for yourself?" 

Bastion barks and runs off to chase down tasty bunnies. 

"You think that's bad? I forgot to bring my helmet!" 

I snicker softly in amusement. "Well, I'm going to sleep now. If you're planning to kill me, now's your opportunity to do so." 

"I'm not going to kill you, Hawke." 

More's the pity, I think absently. No, I shouldn't think like that. It's not like I really want to die or anything. It will happen, sooner or later, regardless of what I do, but I'm not going to accelerate its coming. I didn't slay my father just to rush blindly to my own death. If I just let myself die sometime, then what did my father die for? 

The next morning, I wake to find myself perfectly alive and well, with a protective mabari at my side. Ser Thiall is awake already, getting his armor on again. I don't know that I particularly like the idea of that sort of heavy armor, myself. It just seems like it would be excessively cumbersome and uncomfortable. I much prefer being able to move. 

"Feeling better this morning?" I ask. 

"Much, thank you," Ser Thiall says. 

"We should be able to reach Lothering by this evening easily," I say. 

We head off through the wilderness. My stomach is growling, and I wish, not for the first time, that I'd brought along some provisions. I don't care to take out anymore time to forage for food right now, however. I want to be back in my own bed tonight. A day without food won't kill me. Not feeding the dog, however, might. 

"What do you suppose your fellows would do if they come back and see you in Lothering?" I wonder. 

"I don't know," Ser Thiall admits. "I wouldn't put it past them to try to kill me again." 

I give a nod. "You can hide out at my place for a while, if you like, until we're sure they won't be coming back or they've returned and moved on." 

"Thank you," Ser Thiall says. "I never expected to be so grateful to an apostate. Or that one would so go out of the way to help me." 

"One word of warning, though," I say. "My sister is also an apostate. If you threaten me, I will kill you. If you threaten my sister, I will kill you _slowly_. Understood?" 

"Understood," Ser Thiall says, making a bit of a face.


	11. A Moment of Calm

"You brought a templar home?" Bethany says, staring at Ser Thiall wide-eyed. 

"Be assured, my lady, that I am not here to threaten you or your family." 

"What's going on?" Mother wonders, appearing in the kitchen door and staring at the templar. 

"Ser Thiall will be staying with us for a while," I say. "His comrades attempted to kill him for the high crime of suggesting that slaughtering innocents wasn't the purpose of their order." 

"Well, when you put it that way..." Bethany says. "We haven't killed anyone. Except bandits. And they don't count." 

"And Bastion, my dear doggy, I'm going to buy you an extra-large steak," I say. 

Bastion barks happily and wags his tail. 

* * *

"So, you're a templar," Carver says almost conversationally. 

"Yes," Ser Thiall says. "What of it?" 

"What's it like?" Carver asks. 

I have to wonder if Carver has been thinking of becoming a templar when he grows up, of all things. After everything that's happened, it wouldn't surprise me. I nonchalantly listen to the two of them talking in the next room while chopping some herbs. 

"It's an arduous, never ending task," Ser Thiall replies. "A thankless, dangerous job." 

"But it's an important task," Carver says. "You protect--" 

"I protect the common people from mages," Ser Thiall says. "And I'm supposed to protect the mages from the common people. And from themselves." 

"Right," Carver says. "And what do you do if a mage gets possessed by a demon? If they become an abomination? You kill them, right?" 

I tense a little. I'm pretty sure that Carver won't spread my secret. He hasn't yet, after all, not even after I murdered our own father. But the lines of talk he gets into sometimes make me very uneasy. 

"Certainly," Ser Thiall says. "Such would only be a mercy in that case. There is no cure for possession short of death, after all. And releasing the poor, hapless mage from being controlled by demons is the best that can be done for them." 

"And what if they claim that they're alright? That they aren't really being controlled?" 

"A sure sign that it is the demon speaking, and not the person who the mage once was," Ser Thiall says. "A demon will say anything to preserve a situation that is beneficial to it as long as possible. They will tell any lies about a person actually being happy with them, or that this was what the person really wanted. Do not listen to them." 

My hand clenches around the knife at his words, and I find myself trembling a little in fear. I silently beg Carver not to listen to him. Sure, his words might be accurate for most people. Maybe. I can't say. It's not like most abominations are ever given a chance otherwise, or probably deserve them anyway. How many abominations, I wonder, quietly continue living their lives, unnoticed by those around them for years? It's only the ones that transform immediately that are likely to be spotted and killed on sight, after all. 

"How can you ever really be certain, though?" Carver wonders. 

"Demons have access to everything their host knows," Ser Thiall says. "If someone is possessed, the demon would be quite capable of doing a near-perfect imitation of their host." 

"What if they're doing good things, and helping people?" Carver goes on. 

"It would all be just a ploy," Ser Thiall replies. "No demon does anything for truly selfless reasons. They are nothing more than manifestations of negative emotions." 

"Hmm," Carver says thoughtfully. 

I've long since given up on getting any actual work done. It was a bad idea to bring this templar here. A really, really bad idea. The balance in this home has been fragile enough as it is. Why did I ever think to save him? I should have just followed through on my plan to kill them all. 

"But if there are beings of negative emotions, aren't there ones of positive ones as well?" Carver asks. 

A strange cool rush floods my body. Carver is smarter than one might take him for sometimes. 

"Yes, there are," Ser Thiall says. "They say there are spirits that embody the virtues of humanity. Hope, compassion, justice. But they don't possess people. They interact very little with this world." 

Can even a demon or spirit change its nature? I don't know. My heart aches. 

"So... Out of curiosity, how do you know that they don't possess people or interact with the world of mortals? By the fact that they aren't going on rampages like demons do?" 

I don't know what Carver is fishing for, though. He knows that it's a rage demon inside of me. 

"I suppose there might be a point to that," Ser Thiall says. "It might happen far more frequently than we realize, and we just never hear about it, because they aren't going anything harmful. I don't know." 

I close my eyes and let out a deep breath. I shut them out for the moment, and get back to work. Elder Miriam is expecting these potions this week. If Ser Thiall, or Maker forbid, Carver decides to try to kill me today, then I will deal with that should it happen. 

However, no one comes to attack me while I finish brewing the healing potions I was working on. I box them up and haul them out. After dropping them off with Elder Miriam, I head over to Dane's Refuge to catch up on rumors and see if those templars have come back yet. 

"Good day, Hawke," Danal the barkeep says. "What can I get you today?" 

"The usual," I reply, and Danal pours me a mug of ale. I pick it up and take a drink. "You seen any sign of those templars that were through here the other day?" 

"Haven't seen or heard anything from them, no," Danal says. "Although they might have stopped back at the Chantry and I just haven't heard about it." 

I grunt softly. I don't think I really care to check in at the Chantry and ask about them today. Maybe tomorrow if I haven't seen any sign of them yet. I wonder just how long they were planning on spending hunting about the wilderness looking for the supposed Witch of the Wilds, anyway. 

"Why you looking for them, anyway?" Danal wonders. "Not that it's any of my business." 

I lower my voice, and murmur to him, "They attempted to murder my house guest. Another templar, no less. I'm keeping an eye out to see when it's safe to come out. I don't know if these fool templars are even likely to come back, but I don't care to give them another chance to kill my friend." 

"Ah. I see," Danal says. "Well, I'll keep an eye out for them for you, Hawke." 

"Thanks, Danal," I say, tossing him some coins for the ale, plus a tip. 

* * *

"It's been over a week," I say. "Should they have been back by now?" 

"I don't know," Ser Thiall says. "But if there isn't any sign of them soon, I'm going to put in a request to be transfered to Lothering." 

"Why's that?" I ask. 

"Someone needs to make sure that the two of you stay beneath notice." 

"They've managed well enough for the last eight years," Carver says. "And it's not like any of us have been especially subtle sometimes." 

I snicker softly. "It usually has boiled down to making sure any bandits I'm burning to death don't escape." 

"But you haven't killed any innocent witnesses just to keep your secret, have you?" Ser Thiall asks. 

"Of course not," Bethany replies. "We've never killed anyone who didn't deserve it. Why, I don't think I would be able to live with myself if we had! That would be horrible!" 

"Ah, Bethany, you're a sweet girl, you know that?" Ser Thiall says. "If only more people were like you." 

Bethany's cheeks flush at that. 

"Are you flirting with my sister, Ser Thiall?" Carver says, raising an eyebrow. "She's only sixteen, you know." 

"Certainly not," Ser Thiall says. 

"You're only sixteen, too, Carver," Bethany says. "And that didn't stop you from doing whatever it was you were doing with Peaches behind Barlin's shed." 

Carver sputters for a moment. "You-- You saw us?" 

I snicker softly. "Just don't let Mother hear about that." 

"Hear about what?" says Mother, heading down the stairs. 

Carver's face goes pale. "Uh..." He glances frantically around the room for some backup, and his eyes fix upon me. 

I sigh softly and roll my eyes. "Carver was considering becoming a templar." 

"Carver!" Mother says, giving him a scolding look. "Not for a few more years, you aren't!" 

"Yes, Mother," Carver says, shoulders slumping. "I was just thinking about it. I wasn't planning on actually doing anything anytime soon, of course." 

"Good," Mother says. "I don't want to be losing my babies just yet. Now, I'm going out to have tea with Elder Miriam. You kids be good while I'm gone." She heads out of the house. 

Once she's out of earshot, Carver gives me a grateful look and says, "Thanks." 

I give Carver a conspiratorial grin. He's never shared my secrets with anyone, no matter how bad they are. It's the least I can do to back him up anytime I can. "I'm going to stop by the Chantry and see if there's any news on your fellows." 

"No, maybe I should do that," Carver says. 

"I'm not planning on throwing a fireball in the middle of the Chantry," I say. "Relax, I'll be fine. I appreciate the offer, though." 

"Fine, just don't bring any more of them back to our doorstep," Carver says, smirking. 

I head out into the village. I don't think I really care to go questioning any templars, but perhaps I can locate Leliana. She's much more approachable, if a bit strange. She might have seen something. Or not seen something, as the case may be. 

I enter the Chantry a little nervously. I don't tend to like coming in here willingly, but there's not much help for it sometimes, I suppose. I certainly wasn't about to send in Carver just because of any fears I might have of this place. I should be able to do this myself. 

"Pardon me," I quietly ask a sister. "I'm looking for Sister Leliana." 

The sister points me in the direction of an alcove off to the side of the main hall. I go there and find Leliana sitting and reading an old book. She glances up and smiles at me as I approach. 

"Hawke," she says. "What brings you to the Chantry today? Come, sit with me." 

I take a seat across from her. "What are you reading?" 

"Old stories, bits of Chantry lore," Leliana says. "I love stories." 

"Heh. Have you heard anything about a group of templars who came through here last week, chasing a legend? They went into the Korcari Wilds to hunt down the Witch of the Wilds, and haven't been back." 

"Really now?" Leliana says. "If that's the case, and they're looking for Flemeth, then I would imagine that they are not going to return." 

"So, she actually does exist?" 

"Who knows?" Leliana says. "Perhaps she does, perhaps she doesn't. There are many versions of her tale, and it's hard to say which, if any of them, are true. But it matters little. I have a feeling that your templars are not coming back." 

I chuckle softly. "Well, they're hardly _my_ templars. But what if they didn't actually manage to find this Witch of the Wilds?" 

"Oh, not much danger of that, I think," Leliana says. "I would imagine that if they did not find her, then _she_ would find _them_ , and they would be no better off for it." 

I'm sure that that will be a relief to Ser Thiall, perhaps. It certainly is to me, at any rate. The templars around here are bad enough, but at least they don't go out of their way to kill anyone they even suspect of being possibly a mage. 

"So, you say there's a lot of stories about her," I say. "Can you tell me one of them?" 

"Certainly," Leliana says. "I love telling stories." 

I settle in to listen for a while as Leliana starts going on about Flemeth, the centuries-old Witch of the Wilds. About how beautiful she had been, and wed to a noble lord, but then fell in love with a minstrel and ran off with him to live among the Chasind barbarians. Then, years later, when the lord was old and dying, he begged Flemeth to come back so that he might gaze upon her beauty one last time before he passed on from this world. 

"And so Flemeth and her beloved Owen went to see him, but it was a trap. Owen was slain, and Flemeth was locked in the castle's highest tower. Flemeth was enraged, and a demon possessed her--" 

I tense up involuntarily as she mentions this part. 

"--and as an abomination, she slaughtered the lord's men. The halls of his castle ran red with their blood before she fled south, making her way into the Korcari Wilds again." 

"So..." I say, licking my lips uneasily. "She's not just a centuries-old powerful mage, but a centuries-old _abomination_?" 

"That's right," Leliana says. "Provided this particular account of the story is accurate." She grins at me. "Who knows? Truth, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder." 

I frown deeply. "But, that's not true. There's always something that _actually_ happened, regardless of what stories wind up being told about it after the fact by people who weren't even there." 

"Ah, but who knows which story is true? Especially when those who were present are no longer among the living. And who is to say that even the story which is told by someone who was present is accurate? Perhaps it might be embellished a little here and there. Perhaps they might change the details just a little bit, in order to make one person look better, or another person look worse." 

"But, that would be lying, and so wouldn't be true, then," I protest. 

"And what if one person sees things one way, and another sees things another way?" Leliana says. "Each view is true for them, but they may not entirely agree with one another. And another party might have seen something else entirely." 

I rub my temples. This is giving me a headache. "But what about things like the Chant of Light? About Andraste and the Maker? Surely you must at least think those are true! You're a Chantry sister, after all!" 

"Oh, I didn't say that I don't think anything is true," Leliana replies. "Moreover, what if all of the stories are true, but none of them are completely accurate?" 

"Never mind," I say, sighing. This just isn't going to make sense to me, not today, probably not ever. I shake my head a little. "Thanks for the story. I'll see you later, Sister Leliana." 

I head on out of the Chantry, but as I stroll casually back to my house, my thoughts wander back over Leliana's words again. I think back on my fight with my father. He believed he was doing the right thing. He believed he was saving his beloved daughter from being controlled by a demon. That was his truth, and he was unable to see my truth. He was never a bad person. 

If someone looked at it solely from my truth, one might think that my father was clearly a madman for trying to kill his own daughter. I was only defending myself, after all. I didn't want to die. I didn't want to have to kill him, either, but I didn't want to die even more. That was my truth. Neither truth tells the whole story, however. Neither was all there was to it. 

Both truths are correct, however. Both of us were right to do what we did. I don't need to feel guilty about doing what I did. I don't need to regret it anymore. I can mourn for my father, and regret that things came to that, but I was not wrong. 

I look up at the clear blue sky, and feel the warmth of the sun shining down from above, and I am calm.


End file.
